


Ándre's Burden

by Verabird



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Chabouillet's unrelliable POV, Dubious Historical Accuracy, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, The Paris Prefecture, casefic, mentor relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 09:33:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7217092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/pseuds/Verabird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Of course it had been Étienne's idea, and Chabouillet resented him for it, for what did Étienne-Denis Pasquier truly know about his inner thoughts. Apparently he wasn't benevolent enough, he wasn't generous, he definitely didn't know how to receive or pay compliments, and according to Étienne's great wisdom; Chabouillet was lonely.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Javert is a project, and a difficult one at that. Chabouillet finds himself taking on a protégé he never realised he wanted or needed. It's an odd form of apprenticeship, but the strange and severe young man he picked out from the police academy is growing on Chabouillet, and amidst political corruption and underhand plotting Chabouillet considers falling for him an inconvenient and curable accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ándre's Burden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [francu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/francu/gifts).



> All these French sounding people really did exist in the Paris Prefecture during this time, although I have been a little flexible with precise dates. And with a name like 'Casimir Perier' how could I not make him a villain.

**1806**

Of course it had been Étienne's idea, and Chabouillet resented him for it, for what did Étienne-Denis Pasquier truly know about his inner thoughts. Apparently he wasn't _benevolent_ enough, he wasn't _generous,_ he definitely didn't know how to receive or pay compliments, and according to Étienne's great wisdom; Chabouillet was _lonely._

Chabouillet didn't think himself lonely at all. In fact his lips twisted into a snarl at the thought, that the _Chancelier de France_ himself had told him to his face with a solemn expression and stiff jaw that he, Ándre-Joseph Chabouillet, was a _lonely man._

An outrageously intimate observation to make, Chabouillet bristled, he felt every jolt of the carriage and considered every tiny rock beneath the wheel a personal insult. Not least because this journey was not one he wished to make. Loneliness could not be cured by adopting an upstart young police officer and seeing them through life, that wasn't companionship, that was responsibility, and he wanted nothing to do with it. And again, he needed to remind himself, he wasn't _lonely._

Although the carriage was empty and there had been no one interested in wishing him farewell on his albeit short journey, having few close acquaintances and fewer friends did not make a man lonely or in want of friendship. It made him private and respectable and hard-working, he had no time for any of this, but Étienne-Denis, duc de Pasquier, Chancelier de France commanded him and so he would reluctantly obey.

Chabouillet slammed a fist down on the dip of the open window and brought his attention to the view. The trees were losing their tresses, naked and skeletal against the bleak landscape, and the autumn was heading swiftly towards a cold winter. Damn Étienne, damn the man, he did not want to hear the story of the man's incarceration in the Saint-Lazare prison during the reign of terror again in his life, yet the prefect reminded him at every possible instant that they all must be grateful and they all must perform their duties and obey authority. Well, it helped that the man himself was authority incarnate. Damn him.

He reached the police academy, wearily handed over his papers, and then followed a grizzled officer down a prison-like corridor and out onto a bridge that served as a surveillance platform for the training below. The candidates were in full swing, performing their clumsy best, striking only to miss and falling far too often. Chabouillet watched for all of a minute before he raised two fingers to his temples and scrunched his eyes closed to the disappointing sight.

"I don't suppose you have any good ones?" He asked the officer, who had grunted his introduction as Inspector Tulard.

Tulard seemed unmoved by the statement. He passed a glance over the recruits and watched them engage in faux battle. Just beneath them a wiry young man was taking a swing with a truncheon, he smacked it with over-zealous vigour into the face of another young man. There was a grim crunch and then the poor victim of unruly truncheon waving was left to clutch his face and cry out in pain. Chabouillet watched, expression blank, and sighed. Useless, the whole lot of them.

"I'll take that as a no."

Tulard sniffed. "Dubois is passable."

"Which one's Dubois?"

Tulard waved a non-committed hand towards the back of the room where a lanky blonde with a non-regulation haircut was taking a swing at a practice dummy. Chabouillet imagined Étienne's face on the straw and canvas figure and smiled to himself, yes that made it passable enough.

"Raisson is also acceptable," Tulard said, clearly bored, but nonetheless pointing at a young man who seemed only too delighted at the prospect of waving his rapier around. The boy was practically giggling. Chabouillet sniffed in distaste.

"Frankly, they're all awful. Monsieur, which book do you set your training standards by?"

Tulard shrugged. "Instructions passed down from the last prefect, we do what we can. Baron Pasquier's new enforcements are slowly coming into place, but they won't take full effect for a year, perhaps more. You understand how it is, Monsieur."

Chabouillet did understand. A decade under the incompetence of Louis-Nicholas Dubois was enough to drive a man insane, Chabouillet had survived intact yet the police services throughout the country were still suffering from the dab-hand approach of an aristocrat with no experience in the field.

"I don't suppose your Dubois is any relation?"

"Not that I know of, Monsieur."

It would be an interesting coincidence, but this Dubois was blonde and the former prefect of police with terrible policies had been a fiery redhead. Sadly none of that fire had trickled down into any of his decrees.

Chabouillet took a deep breath and hissed it out through his teeth. It wasn't a decision he wanted or needed to make, but perhaps there would be some pleasure in presenting the boy before Étienne and announcing that Dubois had returned to their ranks. "Fine, I'll take Dubois," He said finally. "Have him prepared I wish to leave within the hour."

"Yes, Monsieur, the library is the most suitable place to wait, I will arrange for tea to be brought to you."

"Thank you, Inspector." Chabouillet restrained himself from mentioning that to remain in this place longer than five minutes would be torture in itself. Instead he bowed respectfully and followed Tulard away from the training yard and into the academy library. It was a deep room with a surprisingly large number of books. Mostly religious, Tulard explained, for it was essential that the young law enforcers understood the origins of the law. Study of certain passages from the Old Testament was compulsory.

Chabouillet nodded along without interest and was glad when the man finally took his leave. He browsed for a moment, finding a book about the Paris Commune, and settled himself into an armchair. He found a little amusement in searching for the names of people he knew, fellow colleagues who had either emerged triumphant from the revolution or sunk into obscurity. Boredom settled in fairly soon after that. Chabouillet was sharp and intelligent, but he had no interest in the academic, religious doctrine had always bored him and he could recite laws off the back of his hand. He had been in the very rooms where the new laws of the empire had been made and they were not occasions one forgot in a hurry. He had no need for reams of books to do his job.

He rose from the chair and walked along one of the shelves, trailing a finger in the dust where the books rested. Compulsory reading the Old Testament may be, but these books had not been touched in weeks. The only signs of movement came from the adjacent shelf which housed books of common law, the laws pertaining to suffrage and the poor and the rights of travellers. Perhaps a revolutionary reformer lived amidst the physically useless set of trainees.

Not that it mattered to Chabouillet. He'd parade the young Dubois around the prefect for a few days until everyone was irritated to the hilt, and then he'd send him back. They would all have a good laugh about it, and generally agree that Étienne had been wrong and he had been right; he didn't need a protegee.

There was one large oval window in the room, set against the back wall and behind another set of bookshelves. Chabouillet made towards it, watching the pale light of evening fade across the hills. The academy had the atmosphere more of a nunnery than a police academy, no wonder there was no order or discipline and all the candidates were horrific.

He peered at the sun, squinting as he watched it move a millimetre in a minute of staring, then took a step closer. He stopped short, his attention caught by the floor, or rather the man sitting on the floor. He was hunched over, pressed against the wall with his legs drawn up, his face so close to the page his nose almost touched the paper. His eyes scanned quickly and his fingers held tight, knuckles whitening.

The look of intense concentration was welcome from Chabouillet after spending time watching so many young men without any concentration at all. This particular young man's hair was loosely drawn back so as to be practical in an old and unfashionable style, it appeared that he'd tried to groom some respectable whiskers from the little hair that adorned his young face, his brows were thick beneath a creased forehead, his jaw stubborn, his nose prominent. The was something disarmingly charming about the honesty in his expression.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting," Chabouillet said smoothly, the corners of his mouth twitching up.

The young man jumped and snapped the book shut with a loud thump, dust spilling from the crisped pages. He looked up with a start, brushing hair out his face, then tightened the queue at the base of his neck.

"Forgive me Monsieur, I did not mean to....I did not intend to..."

"Relax," Chabouillet said, his mouth disobeying propriety and breaking into a full smile. "I assume you have broken no rules in being here."

"None at all," The man said instantly, straightening his back with pride and tilting his chin up. "Making study of these books is allowed."

"Of that I have no doubt."

Chabouillet perused the man before him, glancing up and down his immaculate uniform with meticulously polished buttons and boots and an earnest yet protective expression that adorned his face.

"Do you come here to read often?"

"Only when I believe myself not to be useful elsewhere. I do not enjoy it, but it is necessary."

Chabouillet reached out for the green-backed tome that lay resting in the young man's hands. He instinctively pulled back from Chabouillet's grasp, holding the book out of the way.

"I am only interested in what you are reading," He said amicably.

The young man's eyes shifted from side to side before he cast them down, obviously uncomfortable.

"I do not think you would find it interesting," He mumbled.

"And I think that is for me to decide." There was a pause as Chabouillet held his empty hand out, but it was not filled. "You are a recruit at this police academy are you not?"

He received a nod in return for his question.

"And you have sworn yourself to protect and serve this country?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"To obey your superiors in the police force?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Then I suggest you hand me the book, lest I have to report you for disobeying the Head of the First Bureau, First Division in the Paris Police Prefecture." There was another pause. "Which is me."

The young man scrambled quickly to his feet, a mismatched collection of gangling limbs and loose arms, he stood to attention his back straight as a rod and his eyes fixed on the wall just behind Chabouillet's head. He held out the book, practically thrusting it into Chabouillet's open palm, opening and closing his mouth, stammering forlornly as Chabouillet looked at him with an amused expression.

At the moment when it seemed the young man might have found his words, the door opened, and a neatly dressed servant entered with a tray. Chabouillet looked up and smiled expectantly as the girl nodded and bobbed a meagre curtsy. The tea things were set out on the table before the armchair and Chabouillet waved his hand to stop the servant before she could escape.

"Leave another cup, if you please."

The servant obliged, nodded again, and then swiftly left before anything else could be demanded of her. Chabouillet rounded the chair closer to the table and relaxed back into it, placing the green book on the table, then he beckoned for the young man to follow. He was still staring at the wall with impeccable military posture.

"Sit," Chabouillet called out with the most imperious tone he could muster. "I insist."

Obedience seemed to come easily, but the young man was still trepidatious about sitting opposite someone vastly superior to him. He sat gingerly on the edge of the seat and watched nervously as Chabouillet poured out two cups of tea.

"I would be honoured if you would tell me your name."

"It is Javert, Monsieur."

"And your first?"

A pause.

"I do not have one."

Chabouillet raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment as he plopped a generous three cubes of sugar into his own cup and stirred thoughtfully. Javert, whether willing or no, suddenly blurted out the explanation for him.

"My mother never gave me a first name, when I needed to register for papers I just took my father's last name. I did not think it necessary to have a first."

"Did you not think of taking your father's first name also?"

"If I had known what it was I would have done." Chabouillet looked up from his delicate china tea cup and frowned, but Javert again continued. "I never met him."

"I understand."

Chabouillet didn't understand. He could never understand the thoughts and feelings of the lower classes, at least he assumed he could not. He had no desire to be thrust into the realms of the disenfranchised or to seek refuge amidst the unfortunate. The revolution had changed him, indeed it had changed everyone, yet money was still his unfortunate ruler and he would gladly prostrate himself before it.

He picked up the book from the table and ran a finger down the spine before flipping to the cover page. He read the title then glanced back up at Javert. "I take it this is of personal interest."

Javert flushed and shifted uncomfortably, his hands were resting on his knees but here they tightened and gripped with fervour.

"I did not mean to let anyone see."

"Yet now you have, so you might as well explain."

Chabouillet glanced back down at the printed typeface. _Gypsies and Travellers: Their primitive laws and structures, and the potential for progress and righteous conversion._ He couldn't imagine anyone reading such a book for pleasure, nor could he see how it would be immediately relevant to the average police academy trainee.

"You could have told me it was mere interest and that you were detached, but I cannot believe such a statement now I have seen you behave so evasively. A good police spy must never betray any emotion, you must learn to quell all suspicion and discomfort. Perhaps you'll allow me to guess why it is of such personal importance. You are wondering how far in the ranks someone of your....disposition might be able to climb. Am I correct?"

Javert bowed his head and stared resolutely at the floor. He gave a limited nod and mumbled something in reply.

"You mustn't mumble when you speak to me. Hold your head high and speak up, it is a certain way to receive respect from your listener. You mustn't allow others to mumble when they speak to you either. Hold all forms of communication in the space above you and all your reports and conversations will rise in importance." Chabouillet snapped the book shut with a loud clap, then set it gently back down on the table. He took a long sip of his tea, staring at Javert all the while.

"Where do you see yourself in ten years time, Javert?"

Javert lifted his chin a little higher as if heeding Chabouillet's most recent words. "In the ranks of a police force in a small town."

"Still in the ranks after ten years? Surely you must wish to aim higher."

Javert gestured towards the book then vaguely towards himself before clasping his hands together in front of him. "It is not easy when you are someone of my, as you say, disposition. I will serve the law in all its aspects whichever way I can."

Chabouillet scrutinised him closely. "This is true. It would be very difficult, nee impossible, to hold rank with such a background." _Not without support from someone in power. Not without a patron._

 _"_ I know the law to be true and fair, Monsieur," Javert said, without any hint of wistfulness. "The barriers are in place to keep out those who would abuse the law, as I believe others of my background would."

Chabouillet thought of the mother who had denied her son a first name and the unknown father leaving a single word as a legacy. It was not beyond any stretch of the imagination to assume that they had both been criminal in some nature.

“That is indeed a noble inclination, however it is my belief that hard work may open many doors.” Chabouillet perused the man before him with a curiously furrowed brow. He _still_ didn't want a protégé, but perhaps it would be more interesting to have something of a project. Javert was tall and held himself well, his frame was fairly lithe, but with a little toughening up he would make a formidable man. “You haven't touched your tea.”

“Forgive me, Monsieur.”

“That's quite alright. These things are merely decorative for the conversations of great men. Tell me Javert, what made you decide to join the police?”

Javert reached out to hold the dainty handle of the tea cup before him. The image didn't suit him well.

“I served as a prison guard, it seemed a natural progression. I wish to uphold justice in all its forms, to protect the weak and vulnerable, the law must be kept sacred.”

Chabouillet considered. A prison guard was a perfectly respectable job of law enforcement, but the pay of the lowest police officer was greater than that of the guard.

“Did you command respect?”

“Of course, Monsieur.”

Javert must be slightly older than the other recruits, more used to seeing the terrible nature of the earth and the brutish husks that convicts became. Such experience would be invaluable. Javert seemed willing to better himself, he had the mind of a sharp thinker and the body of a wiry fighter, and most unusual of all he appeared to genuinely believe in his cause.

“Have you considered the path of a police spy?”

“I know of it, Monsieur, but I had not intended to follow. I did not think I could.”

Chabouillet narrowed his eyes and took a moment to sip his tea. The young man would be good, he had the nerve, with the proper training he could… Chabouillet shook himself.

He was not lonely and he would prove so to Étienne. He didn't need a lap dog or blood hound to follow him around and it was no business of his whether this Javert before him rose to anything.

Before he could twist his mind in any further knots, a soft knock sounded at the door and Inspector Tulard entered.

“Monsieur Chabouillet, Dubois is ready to leave.”

About time, Chabouillet thought to himself. He rose and nodded to Javert. “All the best with your training. Perhaps we shall meet again.”

Javert was frowning, glancing at Dubois who was hovering like an excited insect by the door. He seemed to be muttering something to himself.

Chabouillet set his cup down and swept from the room taking Dubois in his whirlwind. Dubois had changed into plain clothes and was carrying a single trunk and a holdall. This was loaded into the carriage and then they took their positions opposite each other on the velvet seat.

Dubois stared at Chabouillet, his eyes wide with a certain thrill, he even licked his lips at one point. It made Chabouillet uneasy.

“So,” he said finally, if only to break the silence. “What path do you see your career taking?”

“Two years in the ranks, Lieutenant by five years, promoted to inspector by ten.”

How uninspired, Chabouillet thought. The man dressed well and there was a signet ring on his finger, no doubt he was from reasonable birth, and his plans seemed fairly likely to happen without any particularly straining work on his behalf.

“Your training has been adequate thus fair?”

“Indeed, Monsieur.”

“What of the others? What do you know of Javert?”

Dubois’ lips curled into a sneer and he rubbed a hand in an agitated gesture along his forearm.

“He only got in because of pity.”

“Pity, Dubois?”

“The rest of us have money to back us, but he proved himself enough to be given charity.”

“I see.” Chabouillet shifted and turned his gaze to the passing countryside. “So out of all of you, he is the only one who truly earned his place in your ranks?”

This took Dubois by surprise. He sat back against the velvet seat and raised an eyebrow. “He is _gitan_ scum nonetheless.”

Chabouillet blinked. After several seconds of painful silence he reached his arm out the window and rapped sharply on the carriage roof. “Turn this thing around!” He shouted out into the wind. “And be quick about it!”

  


* * *

 

 

“Get me Javert!” Chabouillet roared as soon as his foot had set foot back in the police academy. He swung round the main entrance and back into the library, swearing as he found it empty. The training ground too was deserted. By the time he’d turned from the large dirt arena and back into the corridor, Dubois had caught up with him, panting and gripping his knees. 

“Monsieur, I--” 

“Save your breath,” Chabouillet said coldly, waving his cane under the boy’s nose. “You may be decent with the truncheon, but you are far from containing a shred of human decency.” 

“Monsieur Chabouillet, I meant no offence, we all refer to him here as--” 

“Be gone with you!” Chabouillet made a warning swipe with his cane, nearly catching Dubois’ cheek. Chabouillet was not a silent seether, when his anger boiled to the surface his rage shone bright. “I do not wish to see your insolent face another second.” 

Dubois nodded quickly, still remaining rooted to the spot. All the colour had drained from his face save for two patches of bright red on his cheeks, and his brow was raised in intense concern. He did not seem to fully realise the situation, nor have any comprehension as to Chabouillet’s anger. Insulting Javert was all too commonplace for him, and so deep set was the notion of hurling slurs in Javert’s direction that nothing was out of the ordinary. 

“Javert! Someone bring me Javert!” He paced for a few moments, slamming a fist into a nearby tapestry before aggressively running his hand through his hair. “Where are the staff when you need them?” 

Dubois had crossed his arms, his brow a firm set crease and his nose wrinkled. Chabouillet had descended into a state of disarray, one of sharp movements and violent energy. 

“You! Insolent boy! Make yourself useful and find him for me.” 

Dubois hesitated, rocking back on his feet. Chabouillet let out a growl of frustration and took a pace towards him. “Heaven knows you cannot redeem yourself now, but at least try.” 

Dubois bowed, shallow and barely lowering his eyes. Following the disrespectful action he took off down the corridor leaving Chabouillet to pace. 

He was being rash, foolish, proving to himself and likely a future smug looking Étienne that he had been appointed in his post too young. That head of the bureau at thirty was too much of a risky decision, that he couldn’t make safe choices such as the dim-witted Dubois, but instead opted for investments such as Javert. Who so far he’d seen read a book and not much else. He pinched his nose, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back. His lips tightened and pressed together as he heard the sounds of two sets of footsteps, one heavy the other light. 

Javert’s countenance was darkly troubled, yet he held himself proudly, chin up and chest out, shoulders back. Meanwhile Dubois had the audacity to look smug. 

“What did he say to you?” Chabouillet asked, directing the question at Javert. Javert shifted his feet and briefly glanced to the floor before his eyes snapped immediately back.

 “Nothing, Monsieur.” 

“It is likely you will not remain in this place long enough to be held accountable for snitching, so you might as well tell me.” 

“Monsieur, he said nothing.” Javert narrowed his eyes and shifted his shoulders ever so slightly, then considered the statement was not enough. “I would never lie or usurp authority to save a classmate.” 

Chabouillet blinked then loosened his own posture. He nodded then turned to Dubois with a sneer and a frown. “You may leave. I hope our paths never cross again.” 

He waited until Dubois had disappeared then ran his hand down the base of his neck, turning to face the surrounding walls. He’d had a plan up until this point. 

“Javert, I want you.” 

“Monsieur?” 

“I don’t want repulsive cretins such as Dubois clogging up my prefecture, I want sturdy young men with respect and passion. I want you to join me in Paris.” 

His hand was still gripping his cane like iron, his knuckles showing a bright white. Javert shook his head and pressed his lips together with a slight frown. 

“Monsieur, I do not understand. My training is not complete… I do not have the means I--” 

Chabouillet waved his hand in dismissal. “I will oversee the necessary training in Paris, I see little else for you to achieve here.” There was a pause as Chabouillet caught his breath, relaxing his fingers in their grip. He moved to twist one of the rings on his finger, swirling his fingertips over gold and the bright red stone. “Are you good with a sword?”

 “I am adequate, Monsieur.”

 “Adequate? Don’t give me adequate!” Chabouillet laughed, more than a little hysterical. The idea had been absurd to begin with, but now it was truly lost and his mind was working furiously to catch up. “I could have taken Dubois, remember that, but I will put my trust in you. Now, if you would be so kind as to return my investment, I would be forever grateful. Tell me again, are you good with a sword?”

 “I am excellent, Monsieur.” 

“And I believe it.” Chabouillet glanced about him, the corridor still thankfully empty. He moved to the wall mount beside the tapestry and gripped the handle of the ancient decorative sword that was nailed there. He pulled, but the sword was for show and not for fighting. It remained firmly stuck in the wooden mount and refused to budge. Chabouillet raised a knee and kicked at the wall, his infuriation growing. “Blasted thing! Never mind, take mine.” 

He tossed his cane to Javert who caught it one handed and proceeded to hold it tight in his fist and out before him. “The clasp on the side, flick it with your thumb and pull,” Chabouillet said quickly, his eyes still glancing around for something to use. “Toss me back the handle.” 

Javert met his gaze then slid his palm over the cane with reverence. His thumb clipped the silver hook on the end and the casing expanded slightly at one end, leaving a thin sword to slide out of the handle. Javert held both pieces of the sword cane in his hand, raising his eyes back to Chabouillet. 

“Perhaps it would be safer Monsieur, if I were to hold the blunt end, I would not want to catch you with a blade.” 

“Don’t be a ninny, I can take care of myself. Now, throw me a weapon, or will you leave your opponent empty-handed?” 

Javert considered for all of a second before throwing the handle of the sword cane back at Chabouillet. Chabouillet caught it and held it fast against his chest to steady himself, then he swung it with a flick of the wrist and held it out. 

“Now, prove yourself.” Chabouillet lunged without warning, waving the cane handle in a vicious swipe. Javert stepped back just in time, but it was obvious that the move had startled him. His own portion of the cane went slack in his hand. 

“If you have misgivings about hurting me then you might as well rot in this dismal place,” Chabouillet said, swinging to Javert’s right and catching him hard across the shoulder. Javert didn’t fall, but he stumbled, and reached out an arm to brace himself against the stone wall. “These young men who train here? I’ve seen them all before, Javert. Useless upstarts, cream puffs the lot of them, they’ll be taking taxes from farmers and guarding potteries. You can do better. Start by fighting back.”

 Chabouillet stepped forward with his right foot, then crossed over his left, forcing Javert to move with his back against the wall. The gap was closed between them and the next time Chabouillet slashed with the cane there was nowhere for Javert to retreat to. He raised both hands, held the cane between them and across his body. Chabouillet’s weapon smashed down onto the blade. He withdrew and thrust again, this time ricocheting across the blade held sideways. Javert had blocked quickly, anticipating the second move.

 “A good start,” Chabouillet said with a smirk. “But not good enough, we’re not leaving until you’ve had a decent shot at taking my head off.”

 “Monsieur, I don’t think that would be appropriate,” Javert grunted, darting to the side with surprising agility as Chabouillet brought the cane down near his shoulder again. “A police officer should never be the aggressor, but should only serve to protect and deflect in a fight.”

 Chabouillet snorted. “Coward.” He flicked his wrist, gracefully pushing off Javert’s parry and beginning to circle him. Javert dodged and doubled back, cutting of Chabouillet’s predatory circle and raising his arm out to block the way.

 “Less blocking, more attacking,” Chabouillet said with impatience lacing his tone, but he was enjoying himself. He’d recommend daily sword fights in the prefecture when he returned, paperwork had kept him sedentary for too long but it had not softened his appetite for action.

 Javert noticeably swallowed then raised the sword in his hand and darted forward with the tip pointed up. Chabouillet lithely stepped to the side and turned, sending Javert stumbling forward into the opposite wall. 

“You’ll have to do better than that, I saw you coming a mile off. Come on Javert, show me some of that pent up rage Imagine I’m Dubois, or one of the other slimy gits I know you’ve had to deal with.”

 Javert swung again, this time faster and less expected, but Chabouillet still managed to block him. Javert had a strong strike and it did knock him unsteady, but not by much. He swung again, this time Chabouillet ducked under and brought the end of the cane where the cross hairs of a sword would be down onto Javert’s wrist. Javert drew back, almost dropping the cane in his grip, pushed off-balance.

 “Do better, Javert.”

 Yet still Javert’s swings were rudimentary and his thrusts weak. He was holding back and Chabouillet noticed why. He would have to goad him, force him to attack with the blind vengeful justice of the officer against the criminal. He considered as he deflected two of Javert’s weak blows, then swallowed and took a step forward.

 “Do better, _gitan scum_.”

 This time Javert swung with full force. Chabouillet could see in the fury behind his eyes that the wrath wasn’t curbed, and he allowed himself a moment to smile, although this vulnerability served to be his downfall.

 He held the cane handle out in a horizontal bar, but the blow was too strong to block. The cane slid from his grasp and skid across the floor, smacking into the stone wall several feet away. Javert hacked his own sword into the wall just above and beside Chabouillet’s head, then with his other hand he grasped the limp wrist that had just lost a weapon and twisted. Chabouillet stumbled off-balance and turned where Javert’s arm forced him to, finding himself facing the wall, and then a kick to the back of the knees pushed him to the floor.

 The all too swift moment passed and was replaced by silence, then the sound of Javert’s sword dropping to the ground and deep breaths from both of them.

 “Monsieur,” Javert gasped, voice tense and full of desperation. “My apologies, I cannot beg for enough forgiveness, it was an oversight. I did not mean to behave like such a brute, you must request for my dismissal from this institution. No! That is not enough! Arrest me, for I have assaulted a superior. I have assaulted the head of the first bureau!” This last statement was followed by a whimper.

 Chabouillet allowed the wave of shock to pass over him, then the garbled words of the fearful young man, and then the truth of the situation appeared to him. He began to laugh, brushing off his knees and turning from the wall to face Javert. Javert's expression was comical, his eyes unbelievably wide, and his arms held out.

 “Give me your hand,” Chabouillet said, still wheezing between his own panting breaths. “Help me up.”

 Javert quickly grasped Chabouillet’s hand and pulled him to his feet. Then his hands darted to his sides as if he’d been burned. He lowered his eyes and pressed his lips together, brow dropping into a stern furrow.

 “Please forgive me Monsieur, I forgot myself completely.” 

“Nonsense, you gave me what I asked for. You took your time, but eventually I was privy to a most thrilling display. You’ll need polishing of course, but all in good time.”

 Javert stared, completely still except for his long blinks, but even these were sparse. Authority had congratulated Javert, and Javert could only stare back in disbelief.

 “I would like to extend to you my patronage, if you will accept of course, although I hope you do. Paris needs officers like you.”

 Javert opened his mouth, stuttered something, then closed it tight shut. He seemed completely unable to move and his gaze was fixed and steady.

 “Please Monsieur, I beg your forgiveness. I can only accept if you will forgive me for my oversight.”

 Chabouillet laughed, then looked closer at the stern expression and realised that the young man was entirely serious. “Very well,” He said with his own special brand of severity. “I will bestow forgiveness upon you, if you will forgive me for my abysmal turn of phrase. I did not mean to insult you personally.”

 “It is forgiven,” Javert said quickly, his chest visibly loosening.

 “Then that is far too much forgiveness for one day. You will soon find that in Paris there is no forgiveness, and we high officials all hold grudges for the smallest things, often spanning several years. Wait until you meet Étienne, he smiles far too much and I hate him for it.”

 “Étienne-Denis Pasquier? The prefect?”

 “The very same,” Chabouillet replied, nodding approvingly. “I like a man who can keep up with the current affairs of the police hierarchy.”

 “He smiles too much?”

 “You will find yourself not smiling for days on end, often frowning, just to counteract the fact that the man’s visage is far too full of mirth for his own good.”

 

* * *

 

 

**1819**

 

It had been a long day and Chabouillet was just about sick of reports. Étienne kept hovering in his doorway asking if he’d finished with paperwork or had thought of any leads to the recent string of carriage robberies that had been the bane of his life these past few weeks. 

It wasn’t really his fault that he had nothing, no one else had any leads either, and they’d sent their best out into the streets to see what could be done. Chabouillet had even shoved a few officers into carriages and told the drivers to travel in circles until they were stopped. It was a foolish idea, but he couldn’t stand to receive another report of highway robbery when the perpetrator had long ridden off.

Still, Javert couldn’t spend his days riding round in carriages, even if Chabouillet handed him a pile of paperwork to do while sitting in the back seat. He’d been promoted to Lieutenant for his prowess in the field, not his ability to sit still. The thief or thieves would most likely be caught via coincidence, if a gendarme happened to be in the vicinity of a robbery or if the perpetrator slipped up in some way.

None of the witness reports had been particularly helpful. Masked, deep voice that could easily be manufactured, dark clothes, little else to go on.

He pushed the most recent report around the surface of his desk with the tip of a finger and sighed. He looked at the clock above the mantelpiece and watched the minute hand make a full rotation before he turned back to the paper. A cough at the doorway roused him slightly and he looked up with a weary gaze to see Étienne smiling nervously and tapping his cane against the wooden frame.

“Can I help you, Monsieur?” 

Étienne looked apologetic, but stepped across the threshold holding a piece of yellowed paper with a hastily scribbled note. 

“My apologies Ándre, I hope you weren’t planning on making this an early night.”

“What is it?”

Étienne gingerly placed the paper on the edge of Chabouillet’s desk and took a step back. He nodded at it as if it were laced with gunpowder and might explode at any moment.

“It is a report from St. Honore.” 

“And why does it concern me?” Chabouillet was eyeing the paper, not wishing to touch it. Perhaps if he left it alone then he wouldn’t have to deal with whatever it was. “More importantly, why have you brought it and not a secretary?” 

“It is a delicate matter, Ándre.” 

There was a pause as Chabouillet raised an eyebrow, his hand reaching out to rest on the folded paper. 

“It concerns Javert.”

Chabouillet felt his throat tighten, then he slipped the paper into his fingers and quickly unfolded it, glossing over the scrawl with darting eyes. 

“The boy’s an idiot,” Chabouillet hissed, folding the paper and placing it in his inner pocket. He rose shouldering on his coat and heading for the door. Étienne stopped him with a waved hand. 

“Scarcely a boy, Ándre. Not any longer, he was barely one when you brought him here.” 

Chabouillet considered. So Javert had been in his early twenties when he had first stepped through the great arch of the prefecture and as many cases passed he was now closer to thirty. Still, Chabouillet’s instincts were still to view Javert as in need of him professionally and personally, even with their age difference not being more than a decade itself. To see that the man had grown in age and prospered in his new environment was satisfying to Chabouillet, and yet he would always be that severe young man that he’d brought from the police academy. He would remain young if he continued to make mistakes such as these. 

“Will you handle it yourself?” Étienne asked. 

“Naturally, I want no one else involved. Keep this out the ranks, they lack respect enough as it is.” 

Étienne nodded and stepped back to allow Chabouillet to pass unhindered except for a brief clap on the back. Chabouillet hailed a fiacre and spent the journey to St. Honore cursing under his breath. 

The station house in St. Honore was very small and reserved for petty criminals between transfers, which made the sight of Javert furiously pacing in front of Jacques Claude Beugnot all the more insulting. The aristocrat in question looked patient enough and his expression was still relatively serene, yet Javert’s dark and furrowed brow told a different story of the situation. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Chabouillet demanded from his protégé as soon as he’d recovered from the image before him. “Javert, this is completely unacceptable.” 

Javert opened his mouth to reply, but Chabouillet interrupted him, moving to take Monsieur Beugnot’s hand and help him rise. “Monsieur, on behalf of the prefect I must offer my most humble apologies, I’m sure it is all a misunderstanding.” 

Monsieur Beugnot raised a hand to Chabouillet’s own, bring the other helplessly with it. Chabouillet watched, his expression blank for a few moments, then he noticeably winced. “Manacles, Javert? You put him in manacles? Monsieur, I cannot apologise enough--” 

“Monsieur Chabouillet, it is quite alright.” Monsieur Beugnot’s voice was steady if a little hoarse. “Your officer was only doing his duty. A little...enthusiastically perhaps, but his duty nonetheless.” 

“How long have you been detained?” 

“A mere few hours.” 

“A few hours!” Chabouillet rounded on Javert with a fury in his eyes and despite being a head shorter and far more fair, Javert took an instinctive step back. “The key if you please, Javert.”

“Monsieur, I don’t think--” 

“The key. Now!” 

Javert fumbled in the pocket of his great coat and at last handed over the small key that unlocked the manacles. Chabouillet did the honours then helped Monsieur Beugnot to stand, trying not to look too hard at the way he rubbed at his wrists. 

“Allow me to hail you a carriage,” Chabouillet said, shepherding Monsieur Beugnot to the door, his tone one of utter politeness. With a swift change to sharpness he addressed Javert. “Wait here.”

Chabouillet saw the man off safely and passed notes to the driver from his own purse, then ducked back into the dark police post. 

“I have never had cause to doubt you to such a great extent before, Javert. I am disappointed to say the least.” 

“Monsieur, I--” 

“I have not finished.” Chabouillet paced back and forth for a few moments then eyed Javert’s expression. He looked ready to bolt after the man he’d just set free, his fingers twitched and his eyes were bright amidst the rest of his heavy expression. This was the face of a man who had been wronged in the course of justice and Chabouillet could not understand why. “Do you have any idea who that man is?” 

Javert didn’t make a sound, but simply stared. Chabouillet closed his eyes and muttered a silent prayer to give him strength. “You may speak now.” 

“I took his name for the record, as is procedure,” Javert said solemnly. “Jacques Claude Beugnot.” 

“Does that not ring any incredibly important bells for you?” 

Javert thought for a moment, then slowly shook his head. Chabouillet watched as his eyes still twitched back and forth between the floor and the door from whence Monsieur Beugnot had left. 

“Well, in an indirect way he pays your salary, but no doubt his donations will cease after this little game of yours.” 

“Monsieur!” Javert exclaimed, indignant. “It was not my intention to offend, but I do believe I was well within my rights as my suspicions were roused.” 

Chabouillet raised a hand to his temple and pressed it in small circles, slowly working away the kinks of a rising headache. “Perier will not be pleased,” He muttered to himself. Casimir Perier was a vicious embracer of authority and tight regime, he revelled in cold fire and passion, but as the president of the French council and his ultimate superior, Chabouillet could not deny him anything. Indeed, he did an excellent job in keeping the police force funded and all corruption was wiped out. To cross him was not simply a foolish move, it was a death sentence. 

“Well then,” Chabouillet spoke up at last. “You better tell me what despicable crime he committed that you feel was deserving of several hours in custody.” 

Javert cleared his throat and rested his hands firmly at his sides, his back visibly straightened and he lifted his chin. “I was patrolling when I noticed a disturbance down Rue Saint-Roche. A gang of thieves, I recognised one of them from a distance, he has served a sentence but is now back to his old tricks. They were hassling a passer by.” 

“And so in good form you arrested the passer by and put in him handcuffs. Javert, why must you make my job so difficult?” 

Javert shifted his weight in an unconscious move, then sought to correct it and stood straight again. 

“No, Monsieur. I approached with the intent to disband the group, they alerted each other and scattered, I could only follow one and so I chose the slowest, he was older and carried a cane that he refused to drop and so could not escape.” 

Chabouillet could feel the pain in his brow expand and travel behind his eyes, a dull ache that would cost him a peaceful night’s sleep. This incident could remain internal if Javert didn’t submit his report, although convincing Javert not to follow procedure would be a monumental task in and of itself. 

“I assume you caught up with the straggler, it is fortunate his fellows did not think to help.” 

“I suppose it is fortunate, Monsieur. I cornered him and as I approached I asked a few questions of my own. I received threats in reply, but I did not fear, I had seen him speak to those known thieves as if they were comrades. I am sure he was making some deal for money or information.” 

Chabouillet sighed and rubbed his palm across his eyes. He was grateful that Étienne had brought him this news and not one of the flimsy brainless secretaries the prefect deemed useful to employ. This was delicate stuff, extremely delicate, although the arrest of this one caught man might alleviate the embarrassment just a little. 

“He sounds the usual wily sort,” Chabouillet said, frowning as he noticed Javert still appeared unnerved and was holding himself very stiffly. “Where is he being held?” 

“He isn’t, Monsieur.” 

“And why not?” 

“Because you just let him go, Monsieur.” 

Chabouillet stared up at Javert’s firmly set jaw and thought he saw the briefest tremble there. He took in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then let it out in the greatest sigh of that afternoon. 

“I don’t believe it,” He said softly. 

“It is true Monsieur, I was witness to the whole thing.” 

“No, Javert, it’s not that…” Chabouillet stopped and glanced at the bench where Monsieur Beugnot had sat moments before. Corruption lay within their ranks and it was now rising like slime to the surface of a murky pool. Chabouillet’s seat was safe in the prefecture, but Javert’s inclusion in this was less sure. He would inform Perier at the earliest opportunity, but until then Javert’s safety was in question. 

“I am sorry for doubting you, Javert.” 

“You had your reasons, Monsieur.” 

“Stupid reasons.” Chabouillet flung his hand at the wall and punched the crumbling plaster. He felt a shooting pain in his knuckles, but it was a satisfying motion nonetheless. “We must return to the prefect and I will explain everything to Monsieur Pasquier, I am certain he will be our ally in this.” 

Javert nodded, still holding himself so stiffly, and Chabouillet reached out a hand to reassure him. His palm rested on the thick wool of his coat, just above his elbow, and squeezed for a brief moment. Javert stared down at the hand that held his arm and continued to stare even as the hand was retracted and taken away. The frown remained. 

“Come,” Chabouillet said, pulling the lapels of his own coat around him. “Before he has the chance to retire for the evening.”

Monsieur Beugnot was not at his home address and so with a frustrated kick to the curb, Chabouillet climbed back into the carriage and instructed it to return to the prefect. 

“He has made a run for it, the scoundrel. He will be far from Paris before we can mobilise.” 

Javert cleared his throat and focused his attention somewhere by his patron’s ankles. “Perhaps we can catch him at the gates.” 

“There’s not enough time to alert them.” 

“If we set off now--” 

“It’s too late.” 

Chabouillet’s tone was one of finality. In fact, Javert was partially right, they could make it to at least one of the city gates and inform them of the man’s desire to flee. Yet Monsieur Beugnot could escape via another exit, or utilise one of his many contacts, perhaps even lay low within the city itself. It was too late and Chabouillet had been wrong. 

Chabouillet dismounted the carriage first once they reached the prefecture. He rammed his hat back on his head with intense frustration, wincing at his own aggressive action, then climbed the great marble steps two at a time. 

“Don’t say anything to anyone,” He called over his shoulder as Javert followed in his footsteps. “I will handle this.” 

“Monsieur, I am due to patrol this evening.” 

Chabouillet stopped at the top of the steps, then turned back. Although two steps further down, Javert reached the same height as his patron. 

“A good plan, Javert. Make yourself scarce for a few hours.” 

Javert nodded and bowed before turning on his heel and marching down the steps. Chabouillet tipped his hat and watched him go, internally wishing that the man would one day gain the sense of pride needed to not thrust his chin into his greatcoat and hold his head high. Yes it gave him the sense of a formidable man, but it also made him seem smaller, and given Javert’s great height this was a feat in and of itself. 

Chabouillet sighed and shook his head, making his way under the archway of the prefecture and into the grand hall. The door to Étienne’s office was ajar and the sound of raised voices was coming from within. Chabouillet considered just going home and calling it a night, clearly the robberies were causing too much strain, and now an aristocratic criminal had gone rogue. Étienne would not be pleased. 

The door burst open and Étienne strode out, his face visibly drooping and his chin downturned. He glanced up as he marched into the hallway, coming face to face with Chabouillet and meeting his gaze. 

“Ah! The man of the hour!” 

Chabouillet cleared his throat and began to explain, but Étienne cut him off swiftly. “Monsieur Beugnot has told me everything, an absolute miscarriage of justice, performed by your officer. We had such high hopes for Javert, especially after he brought down that inner city gambling ring, I had champagne that night. But now?” He sighed and reached out to put a hand on Chabouillet’s shoulder. “Is he under stress? Perhaps a leave of absence would be best.” 

“Monsieur le Prefect!” Chabouillet blurted out. “Forgive the insolence, but do stop talking.” 

Étienne raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps a leave of absence for you too?” 

“Mon dieu! Étienne, show me you are not a fool. Monsieur Beugnot, what has he claimed?” 

“He hasn’t claimed anything Ándre, he has simply recounted the events of this evening.” 

Chabouillet clapped a hand to his forehead in frustration and shook the hand from his shoulder that was still resting there. He glanced left and right as he dragged his hand down his face. 

“A miscarriage of justice indeed,” He said, exasperated. “Where is he now?” 

“In your office. I thought you might like to continue this conversation there.” Étienne slid his hand to Chabouillet’s back and guided him towards the door that was opposite his own. He opened it and steered Chabouillet across the threshold, then gripped the handle. “Without me, of course.” 

The door shut behind him and Chabouillet was left alone with Monsieur Beugnot who was currently pacing before the fire with a smug expression. 

“Ah, Monsieur le Secretaire,” Monsieur Beugnot said in a tone far too familiar. “Do take a seat.” 

Chabouillet bristled at the thought of being offered a seat in his own office, but skirted round Monsieur Beugnot and positioned himself behind his desk. 

“You made an admirable attempt tonight, Monsieur,” Monsieur Beugnot said, his chin slightly tucked and his smile close-lipped. “But you fell short, and I needed to ensure my innocence was secure.” 

“In light of new evidence Monsieur Beugnot--” 

“New evidence? I thought as much. That officer of yours, couldn’t help from running his mouth, I could tell, and so I needed to see Perier myself. Whatever he told you, I assure you it is hearsay and nothing more. The word of someone like him cannot be believed over the word of someone such as myself.” 

“Someone like him?” Chabouillet could feel his lip curling into a snarl and he urged himself to stay calm. 

“Where does he hail from? The colonies perhaps?” 

“He is as French as you or I and a damn good officer Monsieur.” Chabouillet had risen off his chair, but he recognised his outburst. He backed away and sank into the chair once more, staring instead at the blotting paper before him. Monsieur Beugnot was already clicking his tongue in disapproval.

“I’m sure justice will take its own course.” 

“Of course, Monsieur.” 

Monsieur Beugnot smiled without his teeth, his eyes sparkling with an unnerving sense of deviancy. “In the meantime, I hold no animosity and will not press further charges.” 

Chabouillet felt his fingers grip the edge of his desk and he silently willed for the gentleman to leave. “On behalf of my Lieutenant I am most grateful.” 

“A lieutenant at his age, most admirable,” Monsieur Beugnot said, twirling the tip of his cane so it reflected light between the windows and the mirrors. “I don’t envy our officers on the street, such a dangerous position to be in, you never know what may happen. As I said, I’m sure justice will take its own course.” 

Chabouillet frowned. He was lost, he didn’t like Monsieur Beugnot, he hadn’t got on swimmingly with Étienne but at least he was personable, and when he stood in the doorway of his office the feeling was one of annoyance rather than unease. He could tell something was wrong. 

“Where is it he patrols at this time of day? Along the Quai des Grands Augustins, no?” Monsieur Beugnot reached into his pocket and drew out a long silver chain with an ornately carved pocket watch dangling on the end. He twirled it through his fingers as he flashed a smile to Chabouillet. 

“I do not know the precise route,” Chabouillet said slowly. 

“Oh, that’s alright, because I do.” He flicked the pocket watch open in his palm and the gentle sound of ticking punctuated the silence. “Yes, he should be turning into the Rue de Savoie right about...now.” 

Monsieur Beugnot nodded at the watch, satisfied with something, then snapped it shut and slipped it back into his pocket. He turned his attention to Chabouillet and smiled wide, including teeth this time, but it still did not reach his eyes. 

“When you see him again you must thank your charge for being so predictable, it has helped justice greatly. That is, if you do see him again, of course.” 

Chabouillet blanched. His stomach tightened and he was frozen for a brief few moments before his mind fought against the reaction of his body. He pushed the desk away from his person and stood with such great force papers spilled to the floor. Monsieur Beugnot watched with a vaguely amused expression as Chabouillet tugged on his coat then glanced wildly around, he needed a sword at the very least, a pistol would be best, but there was no time to think or search. 

He pushed past Monsieur Beugnot, shoving him unceremoniously into the wall, but all he heard was laughter in his wake. “You’re too late,” He shouted after him, vicious laughter echoing down the corridor. 

Chabouillet wanted to shut that voice out his mind, clear the image of the smug face of victory from his eyes, but it rang in his ears and swirled vividly before him. A reminder that he’d failed in his duty. He ran, heedless of the concerned looks from his colleagues or wide eyes of his subordinates. He paid them no attention. 

“Monsieur Chabouillet!” The exclamation was enough to make him slow, but not stop completely. He heard boots on tile and soon a man in a smooth navy uniform and perfectly tied cravat was matching his pace. Casimir Perier was a tall and imposing man, slender and dignified. Chabouillet didn’t know what he was doing in the prefecture at this time and he didn’t care. 

“Monsieur Perier, forgive me,” He said breathlessly. “But I have urgent business.” 

A hand slammed harder than was necessary across his chest and Chabouillet was forced to stop and face his superior. He was panting in an unseemly way and he must look extraordinarily dishevelled, but now was not the time to think of propriety. 

“Why don’t you tell me what this is about?” Monsieur Perier asked excruciatingly slowly. “Surely you have not finished your day’s work here.” 

“I need to be in Rue de Savoie.” 

“Why?” 

“It is urgent business.” 

“What business?” 

Chabouillet would scream, but he settled for a frustrated sigh and attempted to sidestep Perier’s arm. He continued to walk the length of the tiled corridor, picking up the pace, noticing the open doors to the light of the Paris streets just a few short paces away. 

“Monsieur Chabouillet, I cannot let you abandon your duties.” 

“I’m sorry, my duties lie elsewhere tonight.” 

He turned on his heel and strode stubbornly to the great entrance, ignoring the cries from behind him. 

“Chabouillet! Come back here! I forbid you to leave this building.” 

Chabouillet turned as he reached the great marble steps and looked into Casimir Perier’s eyes for the first time that day. There was something unfamiliar there, not concern, not desperation, but a need. One hand was reached out as though the man might physically stop him leaving, but in his expression was persistence. 

“Forgive me, Monsieur, but a good man’s life is at stake.” 

Perier lowered his arm and assumed his natural calm expression, the one that commanded authority and respect. “Then perhaps you should hurry,” He spoke coldly, voice steady. “We wouldn’t want it to be too late.” 

Chabouillet frowned, but couldn’t allow himself to think too hard about the odd statement. He had wasted enough time. 

He shouted for the driver to go faster, despite the protestations that the rain could cause them an accident. Chabouillet didn’t care for excuses, he would make it to Rue de Savoie in time or the last five years of his life would have been a waste. Did Javert truly mean so much to him? He was useful, more than useful, he pulled his weight like no other officer in the prefecture. To lose him due to an internal plot of corruption was not fair or just and he would do all in his power to fight it. 

The driver stopped at the mouth of the street and Chabouillet jumped from the carriage avoiding the last steps. The driver cracked his whip and shot off down the street before Chabouillet could ask him to wait. The street was wet from the rain and it poured along the gutters and down the pipes, splashing into murky puddles. It matted his hair, plastering it to his forehead, and soaked through the shoulders of his coat. 

“Javert!” He called into the vicious sleet, desperately searching for a reply. “Javert! Answer me!” 

Nothing, not a sound except the harsh slaps of water on the cobbles. Chabouillet swiped the hair from his eyes and ran down the street, looking into shuttered windows and between the walls of houses. The thought occurred to him that Monsieur Beugnot had sent him on a wild goose chase, that Javert didn’t patrol this area of Paris at all, and Chabouillet cursed himself for not studying his route more closely. 

“Javert!” He shouted again, but there were no voices sent back his way. The street was empty, devoid of life. Chabouillet placed his hands on his knees and breathed slowly, eyes closed as he offered a quick prayer. When he opened his eyes his gaze was caught on the gutter that ran between one boarded up house and the next. The water streamed fast, the colour dark against the street, but in the trickles and rivulets there was a diluted red. He blinked, staring; blood surely. 

His eyes ran to the small slip between the two houses where a low stack of crates hid the rest of the partition from view. He ran towards it and pulled the nearest crate away, paying no heed as the wood smashed and splintered as it hit the floor. 

The sight stopped him in his tracks for a few long seconds. He couldn’t tell if Javert was still breathing, there was no obvious rise and fall in his chest, and no visible wound either. He ran forward, pushing the last crate out the way, and brought his hands beneath Javert’s shoulders, pulling him out of the alley and into the main street. 

Javert’s face was wet from the rain, his clothes soaked, and Chabouillet brushed the plastered hair away from his forehead. He placed a palm to that damp cheek and felt for warmth. 

“You will not be dead,” He murmured mostly to himself. “I demand that you not be dead.” 

He reached for Javert’s hand, clasped it in his own, then slipped his fingers over his wrist to feel for a pulse. The rain pounded in his ears, his own heartbeat mixing into the rhythm, and his fingertips were slippery. He couldn’t tell, he wasn’t sure, and he still didn’t know where the blood was coming from. It was a cold wet nightmare from which he only wanted Javert to wake. 

He glanced up to see how far the main street was. He could leave Javert for a moment to hail another carriage, he should have brought officers with him, any sort of backup. He was alone and helpless and life was slowly slipping away from Javert. He gave the limp hand another squeeze then stood, never feeling so incompetent before in his life. 

He managed a step before he heard the unmistakable sound of voices and footsteps behind him, even among the rain they were noticeable, and he turned. There were too many of them, he didn’t stand a chance, and he closed his eyes in defeat as the gang stepped closer. 

He didn’t have a sword or pistol, he could throw a good punch, but what use was that now? They approached and he prayed for swift release. He knew with the first swing it would not be given, an uppercut to his temple sent him to his knees and his vision blurred. He could see the end of the street, more of them running towards him, so many men, all armed and in formation, wearing police uniforms… 

No, it didn’t make any sense. A foot in the small of his back kicked him further down and he scrambled for purchase on the cobbles, just to raise his head one more time, just to understand. 

A section of the new arrivals went to fend off one of his attackers, he was sure, and even more split to the other side. At the end of the street an ornate carriage pulled up, the door opened, and Casimir Perier himself descended the steps. He stood with complete composure, hands clasped behind his back, watching as the officers fought. 

The pain in his head and the water running in his eyes all combined into confusion for Chabouillet as he watched Perier’s cold unmoved face. He was certain those eyes rested on him and remained there, watching him as he lay in the street. He pushed himself up on his hands as best he could and then one of his attackers was before him, arm raised. 

Chabouillet prepared for this final impact, but instead he heard a shout, it pierced through the sheets of rain. The attacker stopped instantly and without a second glance he was running and out of sight. Gone. 

Chabouillet stared at Perier, the way his mouth was open after the command, his hand raised as if he’d waved away an irritating fly. Surely Perier had not given the command for the gang to flee, he was not in control of them, he was fighting them. No, surely Perier was simply commanding his own forces. 

But Chabouillet couldn’t think, and he didn’t have time to understand. His eyes dropped from Perier to Javert, still lying unconscious in the street. He stretched out a hand, managed to briefly touch his fingertips, before they slipped from his grasp and he accepted unconsciousness himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Chabouillet had never been particularly religious. Heaven and Hell were simple concepts and yet he was unsure where exactly he found himself. The light was white, the pain immense, and so the conclusion could swing both ways. Suddenly something cool was on his forehead, wet and streaming into his eyes. He blinked and coughed, his chest seizing suddenly. 

“Concussion,” A haughty voice pronounced. “Nothing more serious. There is the threat of pneumonia, he was left in the street a long while.” 

Left in the street? Chabouillet could feel himself frowning. He had lost consciousness just as Perier’s men arrived, surely someone had picked him up soon after and not left him 

And yet, as the cold wet street beneath his fingertips came flooding back, so did Perier’s expression. The cold and stony cruelty that had made his blow-addled brain suspicious, and now he was even more so. 

And if he, an official of high standing could be left on the street in the rain, then what of Javert? He tried to voice the concern, but the sounds were simply unintelligible murmurs. 

“It couldn’t be helped, the brawl caused much confusion.” 

This voice was new, but familiar. He would know the rigid tones of Perier anywhere. He struggled to move his limbs, but they felt heavy and his throat ached and his mind was still foggy. If he could just warn whoever else was near of the dangers of the man then he could rest easy, but he was certain that right now he was blind and immobile next to a man who wanted him dead. 

“Is he in pain?” 

 _What do you care?_ Chabouillet wanted to shoot back, but it felt like there was cotton wool in his throat. He tried to scream and even that action failed him. 

“I would say so,” The first voice spoke again, presumably a physician of some kind. 

“He is distressed. Is there nothing you can do?”

“An opiate might be of some help. It will cloud his senses and may cause more confusion of the past few hours, but the pain will ease.” 

“That will do. As high a dose as you can, send him nice and deep, I wish for him to be comfortable.” 

Chabouillet tried to protest, he fought, but his throat burned with foreign liquid and his lungs were set aflame as fingers pinched his nose and forced him to swallow. The cotton wool smothered his senses completely and he sunk back into blackness.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ándre! Ándre, you imbecile! Wake up!” 

Chabouillet groaned and rolled over, his face was pressed to the clammy sheets, his cheek hot. Someone was roughly shoving repeatedly into his shoulder and he raised a feeble hand to stop it. 

“Ándre-Joseph Chabouillet, your leave of absence is long due its completion.” 

“Étienne…” Chabouillet mumbled, opening his eyes then immediately shielding them from the bright light. “Étienne, you must...it’s Perier...he…” 

“Yes, Casimir has been very worried, now sit up so I can talk to you.” 

Chabouillet lay weak as a rag doll while his prefect fluffed the pillows behind him and propped him up against the headboard. Étienne was smiling, which Chabouillet saw as insolence considering all the pain he was in. 

“Enough of this nonsense, Monsieur Chabouillet. They told me it was just concussion so why are you still in bed after all this time?” 

Chabouillet worked his jaw between his fingers and yawned deeply. His mind was starting to clear and his eyes had stopped swimming. The visage of his prefect appeared before him in clarity. 

“Drugs,” He slurred. “They’ve been drugging me, Étienne.” 

“Yes, Ándre, that’s what doctors do.” 

Chabouillet grasped the sheets in his fists and clenched tight in frustration. He stared up at Étienne who was looking thoroughly sympathetic and Chabouillet realised how weak he must appear. This was unacceptable, he must maintain his reputation, and yet somehow his hold had diminished. He knew this to be true, but he was not entirely sure why. He was certain it was of Casimir Perier’s doing, but why exactly, he could not say. 

“What happened?” 

“You were caught up in a street fight. Not like you I must say.” 

“Javert... where is…? How is…?” 

“Javert is perfectly fine. He will heal.” 

“They attacked him.” 

“Yes Ándre, yes they did.” 

“You know?” 

Étienne let out a deep sigh and reached for the basin of water that rested on the bedside table. With great patience he wrung out the cloth that wallowed in it and placed it across Chabouillet’s forehead. 

“It was a fight, everyone was attacking Javert, and he was attacking them.” 

“No, they went to...conspiracy...I’m certain of it….If I could just remember...” 

“Shhh, Ándre, you mustn't strain yourself.” 

Chabouillet made a loud groan of frustration then allowed himself to flop back against the sheets. He tilted his head back and passed a hand over his eyes. 

“I wish to see you better before I leave," Étienne said, turning the wet cloth over to the cool side. 

“Leave?” 

Chabouillet attempted to sit up, but Étienne calmly guided him back down. “Yes, I’m taking up a post down South. It’s a bit of an early retirement I’ll admit, but Casimir thinks it is for the best.” 

“I don’t think any idea of Casimir’s is for the best.” 

Chabouillet felt Étienne trace a knuckle down his cheek in an alarmingly familiar gesture. He blinked and turned his face away. 

“Now now, don’t be contentious. The warm winters will do me good, and I imagine your character will be greatly improved with the new prefect.” 

“They have already filled the post? 

“Jacques Claude Beugnot. Perier offered it to him a few days ago and he graciously accepted.” 

“Étienne, don’t you see what is happening?” 

Étienne withdrew his hand and washed his fingers out in the bowl. He stood from the chair at the bedside and shook his head to clear it. 

“Yes I do, Ándre. Perier has offered me a quiet retirement to the South coast, that is what I see is happening. I can see nothing else and I know nothing else.” 

“Étienne, please.” 

“I’m sorry, Ándre, I really am, but there’s nothing I can do. You almost died, and I, well, I do not wish to die, I wish to retire to the South and be ignorant of all.” 

“You’re a coward Étienne.” 

Étienne smiled down at him, small and reserved, but there was no regret there. It was a smile of pity and was unreserved. He tapped his forehead and took his leave, giving Chabouillet a final glance before the door closed behind him. No sooner had it shut than it swung open again, revealing a tall lean figure in silhouette in the frame. 

Chabouillet raised his head in hope, his jaw loosening slightly. “Javert--?” 

The name stopped on his tongue as the man in the doorway took a step forward. His expression clouded and he pressed himself as far back against the headboard as he could. 

“Javert is safe and well,” Perier said smoothly, his fingers flicking in relay against his thigh. “And so are you.” 

“What do you want?” 

“I was expecting a pleasant greeting Monsieur. Are you taking your medications?” 

Chabouillet did not reply, he simply stared back with his teeth clenched and his jaw upturned. 

“Ah, perhaps you are not up to much conversation, although it was never amusing at the best of times.” Perier sat in the recently vacated chair. “Monsieur Pasquier must have told you about our latest appointment? I am most pleased, he is very committed and most invested in the course of justice, he is in many ways a complete--” 

“Puppet?” 

“Oh, Monsieur Chabouillet, do not be like this, or I will begin to regret allowing your recovery.” 

Chabouillet fell silent and clutched an arm across his chest. It was a protective gesture and he gripped his own shoulder tight. He did not like being made to feel uncomfortable in his own bed, for he recognised the trappings of his house now, and he did not appreciate Casimir Perier coming and going as if he owned the place. He had always been a disgustingly entitled man. 

“If you continue to be an asset to the prefecture I have no qualms with letting you stay on in your present post,” Perier said smoothly. “You have been most useful on occasion and it would be a pity to let you go.” 

“You can’t send us all to hot houses in the South.” 

“And I don’t intend to.” Perier smiled and smoothed his palm along his thigh in a delicate motion. “Timing my dear Monsieur Chabouillet has been on my side, and I see no reason for the clock to stop. I had rather hoped you wouldn’t have much memory left of what had occurred, not after the dosage I forced down you, nevertheless we must work with what the Lord gives us.” 

Chabouillet was certain that Casimir Perier would set on fire if he attempted to enter a church or go near the Lord in any way. 

“You remember enough to make you a liability and so I have put precautions in place. You are a stronger man than I took you to be, and I like my men weak, so I have had to look for a weak spot. All men are vulnerable if you know where to throw the punch. As long as you cooperate, Javert will not be harmed.” 

Chabouillet jerked, suddenly alert, his skin pale once more. “If you’ve hurt him further--” 

“Your listening needs much improvement Monsieur Chabouillet. _Will not_ , I said, he will not be harmed.” 

Perier’s lips continued to curl into a smile and he sat back on the chair, his arms folded proudly across his chest. His uniform was immaculate as always, his hair framed in the popular curled Roman style. He tilted his head to the side, waiting for Chabouillet’s reaction. 

“We work in the same building. Once I am back to my usual strength we both shall be more than enough to protect ourselves,” Chabouillet said, voice damnably weak. 

“The both of you against all of my men?” 

“You cannot control the whole city.” 

“Oh, but I do.” 

Chabouillet felt like he was going to be sick. He was nauseous, had been kept forcibly sedated for several days, and he felt so weak and frustratingly fragile. Meanwhile Perier steepled his fingers with the smug look of victory. 

“Anyway, it is of no consequence. You won’t be working in the same building for much longer. Once you have recovered you will have just enough time to congratulate your precious protégé on his promotion to Inspector before sending him off three hundred miles North. The small town of Montreuil Sur Mer, I have heard it is very quaint.” 

“Javert would be wasted in such a place.” 

“He should have thought of that before he arrested one of my, what did you call him? Ah yes, that’s right, _puppets_.” 

Chabouillet swallowed, shaking his head in disbelief. There was no way to survive this other than to comply. “Javert will not lie for you, he will not lie for anyone.” 

“There is no need for him to do so.” Perier stood from his perch and rounded the bed to the small table. He picked up the tiny bottle that was stoppered with cotton wool. “Our treatment worked on him.” 

“You can’t do this.” 

“And who will stop me? You, Monsieur Chabouillet? Look at you; you’re pathetic. Or perhaps your lap dog?” Perier laughed, short and sharp. “You are both nothing. I will break you like glass.” 

He rubbed his thumb over the label of the small bottle, then turned it upside down so the cotton filled with the liquid and became dark. 

“As soon as the man can walk he leaves and you will wave him goodbye.” 

“Can I not see him now? I am well enough to walk.” 

“I am not so easily fooled, Monsieur. I shall not give you time to talk alone between now and his departure.” 

“You would keep me chained?” 

“Nothing so barbaric.” Perier smiled and plucked the cotton from the bottle and held it delicately between his fingertips before holding it above Chabouillet’s lips. “It will be like sleeping until I deem it necessary for you to wake up. Do not make this harder than it needs to be.” 

Chabouillet tightened his lips and clenched his jaw, but Perier’s long fingers were clasping his throat. They didn’t press hard, but in his weakened state it was hard enough to get him to open his mouth and gasp, and then it was too late and he was back in Perier’s dark grasp.

 

* * *

 

 

**1823**

 

Later they would both pretend Chabouillet hadn’t cried. It had been an excessively cold day when Chabouillet had pinned the silver leaf of Inspector onto Javert’s collar and the cold turned both their eyes and cheeks red. 

It was the weather and not emotion, for Chabouillet had no emotions left now he had been drained dry. He’d lost a friend in Étienne who had abandoned him, and he had lost a friend in Javert who had been forced to abandon him. Left in Paris with no allies and only dangerous enemies, he had become like the icy wind, he had become cold. 

Perier’s grip on Chabouillet was as tight as his hold on the city itself. Order ruled, unless crime would improve stakes in Perier’s investments in which case he would order it himself. Chabouillet was not permitted to leave the city without an escort, for his own safety Perier had said, but of course it was to prevent him from making touch with Javert. Chabouillet kept out of his way, focusing on his own network. He had built up his own list of people he could trust. 

Jacques Claude Beugnot lasted six months before he was made destitute and left the city with an empty purse and no friends. His successor, Antoine Balthazar Joachin d’André with his stupid name and fashion sense had made it through three months before he was found with his throat slit beneath a bridge. Louis Antoine Fauvelet de Bourrienne was prefect for a full year before he fled without notice. Four prefects had followed in the years since, until Guy Delavau had arrived, fresh faced and eager to reform the ancient laws, Delavau had been prefect for over two years now without complaint. Perier must either not care or his new aims lay further afield, he had been made General of Anzin a few years prior and lay his attentions on foreign goals. 

As prefects came and went the Secretaire remained the same. Chabouillet kept his head down in the prefecture, yet on the streets he was a familiar face. He was welcomed in most establishments with open arms, and was asked to host many affairs in his home on S. Martin. Whilst he was greeted with smiles he knew those he crossed to be fickle and so kept acquaintances at a distance. 

Correspondence with Javert was sporadic. Occasional updates from the small town were a highlight for Chabouillet, although sparse, and he made sure to pour through every detail. Javert was far away and his talents were all but flushed into the sea, but at least he was alive and safe. Even if Chabouillet could not touch or see him, he was fine, more than fine. He was doing well. 

Of course Javert had considered the move to the small town a promotion of the highest standing and had thanked his patron endlessly. Even now, so many years later, Javert began his letters with declarations of gratitude. 

A year or so after Javert’s departure a small card rectangle from Languedoc had appeared on Chabouillet’s desk. He’d noticed Étienne’s signature and promptly thrown the thing into the fire without reading. He didn’t hear from Étienne-Denis Pasquier again. 

Javert recalled tales of unruly children who threw stones at his retreating back, weavers who lost their baskets, and factory workers who sometimes raised their voices. It seemed an idyllic life, yet one that was lost on Javert, who he knew deserved better. 

He had not plucked the young man from a police academy in the countryside and hand trained him in Paris, merely to drop him in a quiet coastal town. Crime sounded sparse, perhaps due to Javert’s strict regime, but more likely due to the fact that only ten people seemed to live there. 

Early in the spring of 1823, a letter landed on his desk marked urgent, covered in plenty of stamps, and imprinted with familiar handwriting. Chabouillet scanned the note, then read closer. He read it a third time, then folded it up and placed it under several pieces of paperwork. 

He rose with a strange degree of calm and exited his office before leaning against the door and taking several deep breaths. They had managed for four years, he’d kept Javert safe for four years, and now it would unravel. He needed Javert to keep his head down and above all else, not question any form of authority. 

He had trusted Javert to perform this duty as he had never met anyone who respected authority quite so blindly as Javert. He’d often attempted to get his protégé to question such beliefs, but quickly quelled this when it became certain that men like Casimir Perier would always stand over him. It was better to obey. It was safer. 

He paced. Back and forth across the black and white tiles, back and forth, back and forth. An hour passed and still he had not thought of an acceptable solution. When the corridor torches began to flicker and dim he decided to return to his office and pen a response. Something light, something to quickly dismiss the claims before they grew.

 

_My Dear M. Javert,_

 

_You have needed glasses ever since I saw your nose pressed too close to that book in the academy library. I know you have need of them, and yet you refuse to wear them, for cost maybe, or perhaps you do not think a police Inspector should wear eyeglasses. I know many that do._

_It has been more than a decade since you paced the bagne in Toulon, closer to two decades. You cannot be certain of such a serious claim and I would require further proof to even begin such an investigation. You are not in Paris anymore, I cannot use our resources here to help you on a whim._

_See better, Javert. I implore you. Nothing good will come of this._

 

_Yours,_

_M. Ándre-Joseph Chabouillet_

 

He signed his name then hastily stamped the paper before hurrying into the street and passing the note to a nearby gamin. He promised twice the fee if the letter made it onto the evening’s mail coach out of Paris. 

He did not think anything else of it until two months later when another letter landed on his desk. He hoped this would only divulge more of Javert’s tales of small town life, but alas. It was written in haste and excitement, that much was obvious, it spoke of strength and carts and good deeds, and Chabouillet hung his head in despair. 

 _Why couldn’t you just let the past alone_ , he found himself shouting to Javert in his head, praying that the man would get the message. No, he needed something more concrete to satisfy Javert, something that would ensure Javert’s continued safety in Montreuill Sur Mer. 

He paced to clear his mind then made for the grand offices that were situated on the second floor of the prefect. He clenched his fist, swallowed then knocked. Perier’s voice made his skin crawl when he called for him to enter, but he stood tall and firm without a crack in voice or posture. 

“Ah, Monsieur Chabouillet, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” 

“Do you have control of any courts outside of Paris?” He asked quickly, trying to not sound breathless. 

“What a strange question, Monsieur. I am not sure I can answer in good faith. Maybe I have influence in some although it is not yet entirely clear to me why you need to know.”

 “Which ones?” 

Perier leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers, tapping the top of each fingertip as he listed. “Reims, Troyes, Arras, Lille--” 

“Arras,” Chabouillet said quickly. “Arras will do.” 

“Will do for what?” 

“I need a favour.”

Perier raised an eyebrow, clearly more amused than curious. His fingers twitched beneath his chin in barely concealed excitement. “Ah, Monsieur Chabouillet, I thought you’d never ask.”

 

* * *

 

 

They found a suitable candidate and the convict witnesses were easy to bribe. Chabouillet swallowed what few morals his cold body had left and let the trial do its job. The derivative letter sent to Javert was the hardest part, but it needed to be convincing. 

All the while Perier breathed down his neck and was far too eager at the prospect of damning an innocent man. Chabouillet insisted that the newfound convict, a simple fool, would be released at the earliest opportunity, but this was not what interested Perier. It was the chance to spill blood that excited him. 

Javert even spoke himself in the early days of the trial and Chabouillet was certain that his plan had worked. Which was why, three days later, when the last and final letter Javert would write to him landed on his desk, he was shocked first and full of complete and utter despair second.

 

* * *

 

 

“It was such an inspired plan Monsieur Chabouillet, I am disappointed myself that it didn’t work. Still, Inspector Javert rides for Paris, and he intends to stay so what are you going to do about it?” 

Chabouillet sat before the fire, his face aglow with the amber flames. His breathing was quickened and his throat was dry. 

“He knows nothing.” 

“But he will not keep our secrets as you do.” 

“Then I will protect him from them.” 

“How?” 

“I do not know.”

 

* * *

 

 

**1831**

 

Perier was far more lenient than Chabouillet gave him credit for. He assumed that he had a great hold on Chabouillet, that loyalty had fallen into his lap, and that the trial of Champmathieu meant that he owed him something even greater. 

It was fairly easy to keep Javert away from Perier’s dealings and the associated ministers. Chabouillet put him in charge of the Patron Minette investigation, perhaps the only gang in Paris without ties to Perier himself, and so Javert could run the streets without risk of seeing or hearing anything. 

Chabouillet found he was much happier with Javert back in Paris. It felt like he belonged there, he was as brooding as the slate on the buildings and just as tall, he fit in among the tenements and alleys, and above all he was a good Inspector. 

By 1831, Perier had earned the favour of every minor minister in Paris and was elected Prime Minister in March. Chabouillet was grateful that the position took him out of the prefecture and across the river. It meant he didn’t have to see the elegantly proportioned smug face day in and day out. 

In October of the same year, Sébastien Louis Saulnier's body was found washed up on the banks of the Seine, and the eighteenth prefect since he first began his position as Secretaire was enrolled into the prefecture. Henri Gisquet was a better man that those that had gone before him, morally he was sound though not overtly perfect, he didn’t smile too much, and he was easy on the eye. Chabouillet liked the man and he was the first prefect since Delavau left in 1828 that he could have a decent conversation with. 

Gisquet was also one of the first prefects who not only tolerated Javert’s presence, but liked him as well, an unusual demeanour to have towards Javert for one who did not know him very well. 

He was working late at night, the halls were quiet and the faces of irritating office workers didn’t haunt his sight, Gisquet had just retired for the night and Chabouillet was left alone with just the scratching of his quill. He felt happy for the first time in years, content, safe. Perier had much bigger fish to fry than him and his faithful Inspector. 

He heard the footsteps in the corridor outside and he closed his eyes and allowed a brief sigh of happiness to escape his lips. Javert knocked dutifully before entering and Chabouillet smiled broadly as he crossed the threshold. 

“Good evening Javert, I trust your evening patrol was calm?” 

“Monsieur.” Javert doffed his hat in greeting followed by his coat and placed both on the stand by the door. “It was quiet indeed.” 

“As I had hoped. Where did it take you?” 

“North of the river, there have been so few disturbances there of late.” 

Chabouillet smiled and draw back his chair, standing so he could move to the more comfortable armchair by the fire. There was a pair of them, arranged just so to take the warmth of the flames. 

“Sit with me. I insist.” 

Javert nodded, expression severe, but Chabouillet still looked for some recognition that such similar words had been spoken at their first meeting. He sat opposite his patron, face turned from the fire. The amber glow glanced off his sharp cheeks and jaw, red and orange whistling through the neat whiskers. 

“Thank you, Monsieur.” 

“It is my pleasure Javert, as it always has been.” Chabouillet shifted forwards slightly. “Which way did you come back by?” 

“The Pont au Change.” 

“Of course. The sunset is so beautiful from there, how it fades over both Notre Dame and our very own Palais. Perhaps one evening we can view it together.” 

“Perhaps Monsieur.” 

Chabouillet searched in Javert’s face for some warmth. His brow seemed perpetually furrowed, but something about the firelight and the evening was softening that countenance. Chabouillet would coax a smile from him yet. 

“Truly a beautiful part of our city. Paris, it is such a beautiful place.” 

“You have used the word beautiful a fair few times now, Monsieur.” 

Chabouillet noticed sincerity in Javert’s tone, but upon looking up he noticed a certain brightness in his eyes. Well, it was a start. 

“Enchanting then, the sunset over the Pont au Change is an enchanting sight. Sunrise too I expect, although I would hope to never be caught too often in the city during sunrise.” 

“I am often in the habit of viewing sunrises after my patrols.” 

“Then I will ensure your patrols finish earlier so you may return home at a Godly hour.” 

“I do not mind patrolling during the sunrise, Monsieur." 

Chabouillet hummed softly and turned towards the fire. It burned bright and was not in need of stoking, but he played with the poker nonetheless. If only to avoid staring too closely at his protégé. He was proud of him. Javert, his bright project of so many years ago had grown into his own man, a severe man with a strict sense of propriety and rules, a man who loved the law as a bedfellow, and a man who enjoyed the sunrise. 

Chabouillet was at peace, and it lasted until the end of the year when the body of the first woman was found dead across the steps of S. Claude-Montmartre.

 

* * *

 

**1832**

 

Chabouillet had never been so busy. He’d dealt with murders before, the murders of women many times, the murders of prostitutes on countless occasions, but these murders… 

They were despicable, and the people of Paris wanted action. He couldn’t blame them really, the crimes seemed completely senseless, and there was a pattern. This was not some angry customer who didn’t want to pay or had been too violent. 

They were quick snaps to the neck, barely time for the bodies to bruise, swift death with assassin-like quality. There were no signs of struggle and nothing to suggest that the women had not trusted their assailants. There was no evidence of violation either, it seemed that these women were meeting with a single man and before a word could be spoken they lay dead in the street. 

Javert had made the first crack in the case by identifying the women. He didn’t know them by name of course, but he recognised a trademark yellow scarf that only came from a certain brothel in the side street off Rue Jerusalem. Although the women had been found dead in seemingly random locations they had all hailed originally from the same place. They were officially attached to the same locale and were not freelancers or abandoned. 

Chabouillet sent Javert to do the questioning, but found he came back short of any useful answers. He was at the end of his tether, a new body was turning up every week, sometimes faster, and it looked like the police weren’t doing anything. 

He requested a raid on the brothel and enforcements went in with vigour. They broke the place up, Chabouillet heard from reports, ripped up floorboards and shook apart beds. They found nothing, and Chabouillet was left with the grim dissatisfaction that they were terrorising the wrong people. These women were the targets, they must be terrified, and now he’d sent men in to destroy their home and safe haven. 

He would make it right. By catching the killer eventually, but at the present time there was a small thing he could do. He asked Javert to accompany him and said that he wished to conduct more questioning of certain individuals. Javert followed dutifully without any questions of his own. 

Javert was imposing enough as he stood behind Chabouillet to allow the door to swing open for them without flashing a police seal. Chabouillet thanked the Madame, who introduced herself as Madame Blot, and politely accepted her offer of tea, though on second glance at the mug she handed him he decided to only make a show of drinking. 

Javert was not offered tea, instead he received suspicious glances. This did not seem to phase him and he was quite happy to remain standing as stiff as statue in the Tuileries. 

“Madame, first my condolences,” Chabouillet said, adding what he hoped was a sympathetic smile. “We are doing all we can.” 

“Three girls, Monsieur. Three in the past month, my business is a wreck, it has run dry.” 

Javert sniffed distastefully from the corner and Chabouillet focused hard on not looking at him. The brothel was legal. Its credentials were one of the first things they had examined upon finding the yellow scarves, although Chabouillet disproved of creating more petty criminals when they already had rather a large one on their tail. Javert made his feelings of fallen women very clear to Chabouillet, and indeed the whole prefecture, he just couldn’t shut up about them. It was an odd thing to have a moral complex about, but upon suggesting they discuss the reasoning behind it Javert had fallen silent. 

Chabouillet was not one to pry, but he imagined that the face of every pleading starving woman in France who was willing to sell that which could be taken reminded Javert of someone. Someone who had once been close to him and then created distance when they realised what their presence meant for a young Javert’s future. 

But Chabouillet was not one to pry, and he had never had a budding relationship with his own mother either. Not that he was internally insinuating such a thing to be the cause, but cholera had taken her before he had the chance to love or resent, and he imagined the situations to be similar. 

“Then please accept my condolences for your business,” Chabouillet said tightly. “And also my apologies for the disruptions caused by my men last week.” 

“No one will come here anymore, you have ruined me.” 

Chabouillet didn’t want to point out that the brothel seemed to be in perfect shape. The floorboards nailed back down and the curtains in single pieces with no rips. He certainly hadn’t ordered such a cleanup and there was little chance that skilled carpentry had been performed on the cheap. 

“I am sure once we have caught our man you will reach success again. Although Madame, perhaps you could turn your nose to other professions, I’m sure you possess many useful skills that could be harnessed.” 

“I feel no shame in my profession.” 

“I would never suggest such a thing. It simply might be safer if you considered your other options.” 

“It does not matter,” Madame Blot said with a haughty sniff, raising her chin. “You will not catch him.” 

“I assure you, we will.” 

“No, it is impossible.” 

Chabouillet paused and stared at the woman. She had her arms crossed over her chest, a form of protection naturally, and her eyes were vividly bright. Javert’s own eyes were darting between the two of them, his own hands twitching. 

“What makes you so adamant in your convictions?” 

“Fishermen catch fish, they do not throw their nets upon each other.” 

Chabouillet sighed, the Madame’s malapropisms suggested she was not fully capable of rational thought. He glanced down to where Madame Blot’s fingers were fiddling rapidly with a ring on her finger. A bright blue set beside two other stones, it matched a similar necklace and earrings. His attention was drawn to the cloth beneath his fingertips on the table, a fine silk, and the same material hung in perfect coordination from the window frames. Surely a brothel Madame could not afford such things, and even if the pay could be stretched, these items would have been ruined in the search. He stared back at the alarmingly blue ring on her finger, the gold band that twisted incessantly. He shook his head. 

“Are there any other women on the premises?” 

“Several, Monsieur.” 

“Bring me one to speak with, and I would be most grateful if you would leave me alone to do it.” 

Madame Blot nodded and swept from the room. She returned holding the elbow of a young girl in a tight grip, her blonde hair was tucked hastily into a cap and her apron was sullied with dirt and grease. She could be no more than fifteen. 

“This is Elise. She will tell you nothing, I have told her to tell you nothing.” 

Chabouillet nodded at the Madame and watched her fly into the hallway with an imperious nature. “Most helpful,” He muttered after her retreating form. “Now, Mademoiselle, there is no need to be frightened.” 

Elise bit her lip and twisted her fingers between her palms. They had already been rubbed raw there, a bright pink against the rest of her pallid skin, something had clearly been causing her anxiety. 

“There is no need to fear, I will not bring up the sordid business that has plagued you, I am sure you have talked enough about it and have lost friends in the bargain. Instead I wish to ask you something else.” Chabouillet picked up the mug of tea that Madame Blot had made him and nearly got it to his lips before he coughed and set it back down. He must remind his subconscious not to try and pick it up again. “Have you had any rich clients lately?” 

“I do not handle money, Monsieur,” Elise mumbled, picking at her nails. “It goes through Madame.” 

“Of course, of course, no rich donor then? A benevolent fund?” 

“I don’t know, Monsieur.” 

Chabouillet tapped his fingers on the table. He was certain of the familiarity of that blue, he was sure he’d seen it somewhere before. It would come to him if he did not dwell. 

“Does your Madame often accept bribes?” 

Elise skirted back and glanced towards the door with an expression of terror. Chabouillet followed her gaze and learned her meaning, the woman was probably listening at the door this very moment. 

“She is a good woman Monsieur,” Elise said quickly. “I do not know, but I am sure she would not.” 

“We can offer you protection. Whatever you say in this room, even if she hears or comes to know, we can keep you safe.” 

Elise swallowed, blinking rapidly, one hand gripping to the opposite wrist. Chabouillet assumed that Madame Blot had chosen the most vulnerable of the girls in order to prevent him learning anything. 

“You can offer me protection?” 

“Yes, of course.” 

“But I do not know who you are.” 

Chabouillet rapped the silk beneath his fingers with bare knuckles and cleared his throat. “I am Monsieur Chabouillet, Secretaire to the prefect.” 

“The prefect?” 

Chabouillet should have known by the tone straight away that it was not a question but a fearful request for confirmation. 

“Yes, Monsieur Gisquet, although I doubt he personally would offer you protection. I extend the hand of the police.” 

It was the last word that set her off. She choked back a gasp and clasped her breast, within an instant the door had opened and Madame Blot burst through, cementing Chabouillet’s suspicions that she had been right outside. 

“It is time for you to leave Monsieur. I must prepare for the evening.” 

Chabouillet’s expression contorted into poorly concealed fury. The fear that plagued the streets of Paris, that sent desperate women to early graves, it wound a horrifying path back to him, back to the police. Worst of all, he was in the dark of the whole thing. The blue of the ring burned bright in his mind, the same ring he’d passed on display in the window of the pawn brokers near the Palais itself for several weeks now. He knew it would not be resting there on its red velvet pillow any more. 

He swept from the room without any acknowledgement, not checking to see if Javert was following. He needed air, and the boarded room was all but choking him with its stuffiness. He laid a hand on the carriage door and supported himself for a few moments. He’d known of the corruption, he’d even taken part in it himself, but not once had he raised a hand to stop it. He’d been protecting Javert, that’s what he told himself, but no, he was far too selfish for that. He’d been only protecting himself. 

He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, but did not turn. He knew that weight and poise, the way it rested but did not squeeze. 

“Javert, I take it you have come to the same conclusions as I,” He said with a soft exhale of breath, leaning forward to press his forehead to the varnished wood of the carriage. 

“Perhaps it is a single officer in the lower ranks.” 

“Your desire to protect authority at every level is admirable, but we both know the likelihood of such a thing. These were planned meticulously.” 

He pulled away from the carriage and turned, slipping beneath Javert’s outstretched arm so that they were facing each other. Javert looked concerned, his brow was heavier than usual, and his fingers were still splayed across his shoulder. 

“What do we do, Monsieur?” 

“We retire together to the South coast.” 

There was silence between them, thick and heavy, Chabouillet tried a small smile but Javert could not return it. His brow merely furrowed deeper into more concern. 

“There is always the girl they are sending out tonight,” Javert said finally at great length. 

“What?” 

“I returned briefly to ask a question of my own. The Madame expresses concerns of preparing for this evening, but she intends to keep the house locked and boarded. Only one is being sent out tonight.” 

“Well then.” Chabouillet pushed off the carriage and opened the door to allow Javert entry. “I believe they are sending another lamb to the slaughter.” 

“That is my belief also, Monsieur.” 

“How many must die until they are satisfied? What did they all see? What could they possibly know that is such dangerous information it deserves their deaths?” 

Javert was silent, he could not answer such a loaded question, not when he was in the dark over who ‘they’ was. He lowered his head in thoughtful repose. 

“We do not know how deep the corruption sinks, it is best if only I embark on this mission.” 

“Javert, I cannot let you do that.” 

“It is just one man, an assassin, I can handle that.” 

“I have no doubt, I merely have reservations.” Chabouillet sighed and looked up into the eyes of the man opposite him. He was not a boy any more. “Fine, but I shall follow behind.” 

“At a distance, Monsieur.” 

Chabouillet laughed. “If you believe my presence to be a compromise, then I assure you it will be from a distance.” 

He instructed the carriage to pull into a side street where they could view the comings and goings of the brothel. When the girl was pushed out Javert would follow and Chabouillet would follow Javert. It would be a trail of breadcrumbs heading either to a confused client’s house or a cold-hearted killer. 

Chabouillet rested a hand on the windowsill and recalled the names and faces of previous prefects. They had all known eventually, if not at the start then when that part of their career was terminated. Had Gisquet been corrupted so soon? He could not be sure, but he still wished he could trust the man. 

“There is so much I have not told you,” He said softly, turning to Javert. “I assumed it would keep you safe, but now I am not certain of that conviction.” 

“You have the right to withhold information from me, Monsieur.” 

“Even when it concerns corruption in the highest ranks, in the prime minister himself?” 

Javert fell silent, he stared at Chabouillet, his eyes cold and stony. His fingers tensed into a fist. “Even so?” 

“Since before you left for Montreuil. I have known all this time and yet not acted, to think I could have prevented this.” He waved his arm mutely. “There was no evidence and all who could speak out against him were dead or silenced with money.” 

“And you?” 

“I was also silenced.” 

“How?” 

Chabouillet raised his eyes and met Javert’s gaze for the first time. It burned, he could feel it tense in the back of his throat and set his insides ablaze. That accusatory stare was enough to melt iron and he could not bare it long. 

“For you. I kept my silence so that you might be safe.” 

“I do not understand.” 

“It is a vast web, too complicated, I do not understand much myself.” 

“Monsieur Perier is corrupt,” Javert said simply, the statement resting heavy on his tongue. “I do not understand.” 

Chabouillet reached comprehension then. His sacrifice was so obvious to Javert, although the emotional weight and strain it had caused perhaps less apparent, no, that was not what confused Javert. Authority, the highest authority in Paris, in the whole of France, it was rotten to the core, and that Javert just could not understand. 

“You have known all this time?” 

“Yes, Javert.” 

“And you did not speak out.” 

“I feared for your life Javert!” Chabouillet exclaimed, then a little softer he spoke again. “I feared for my own.” 

“I would have accepted that risk to expose this.” 

“I did not know that.” 

“Yes, Monsieur, you would have known. You know I would have sacrificed my small life if it would expose such disorder. You know me.” 

“Do not say that Javert, your life is not small.” Chabouillet grasped the windowsill tighter now. Although Javert was letting a pent up tirade run wild within the carriage he was still upright and focused on the door to the brothel. Duty above all. “Your life is not small,” He repeated again. 

Javert snorted in derision and straightened his spine. “Perhaps you are just as these other men are, they are your friends and colleagues, I cannot sort the lies from the truths.” 

“I would not lie when it comes to you.” 

“But you did, you have admitted. For years you lied to protect me, I fear you only protected yourself.” 

“Javert, that’s not--” 

“I am not a fool!” 

Silence rested thick in the carriage, a silence punctuated only by the soft sound of hinges. The girl looked left and right, then padded off into the darkness on bare feet. Javert and Chabouillet shared a glance. 

“We must put this aside,” Chabouillet said in a harsh whisper. “A young woman’s life is at stake.” 

“So concerned Monsieur?” 

That sarcastic biting tone always amused Chabouillet when it was directed towards others, but now turned on himself it stung with a vicious bite. 

“Yes Javert, I am more concerned than you would know. Now follow her quickly.” 

Javert slipped from the carriage, nimble despite his size, and took a few steps towards the alleyway. Then he turned and stared back at Chabouillet. “Do not follow me. I would not want to feel a knife in my back.” 

Chabouillet grimaced, internal pain visible on his features. He sat back in the carriage, certain that all could be explained and revealed if they discussed the matter away from the case. Away from the tense dark night. 

Javert was lost to the night and Chabouillet had not even attempted to grasp him. What did the man mean to him? Enough. He meant more than enough. 

He opened the carriage door at his side and slipped into the darkness, but instead of following Javert he headed straight for the brothel. He could not follow in Javert’s footsteps now, both he and the girl would be long gone. 

He knocked hard and with purpose, waiting a slow minute before taking a step back and ramming the door with his shoulder. The wood was soft with rot and fell from its hinges by the third blow. Chabouillet rubbed his shoulder absently and swept into the parlour where Madame Blot had received him. 

“Where has she been sent?” He asked, voice loud and commanding. Madame Blot looked up from her wooden box that was spilling over with freshly printed notes. 

“I do not know what you mean Monsieur.” 

Frustrated, Chabouillet ran a hand through his hair, then reached beneath his coat and gripped the pistol hilt at his belt. He eyed Madame Blot carefully. “I will ask again, where has she been sent?” 

Madame Blot’s eyes followed the hand that now gripped the still holstered pistol. She raised an eyebrow then returned to her counting with a shrug. “I do not know, Monsieur.” 

Chabouillet flicked the pistol from his waist and held it out, cocking it swiftly in a single motion. “I am of the police and I believe we do this sort of thing without consequence.” His voice dropped to a steady murmur. “Where has she been sent?” 

“I don’t know.” 

The shot reverberated loud in the small room, the blast of wood just above Madame Blot’s head splintering with a sharp crack. He heard a scream from the room beyond. 

“Madame, I am not playing games.” 

She raised her hands before her, eyes wide with shock. The box had been pushed and slipped to the floor, notes scattering across the boards. 

“The prefecture,” She said quickly. "He told us to send her to the prefecture, Rue Saint-Martin."

“Thank you Madame,” Chabouillet said with grating charm and turned on his heel. The prefecture, it seemed more than appropriate, and Chabouillet was certain he knew who 'he' was. He ran back to the carriage, aware that his cane was no longer merely decorative, and climbed inside. 

The ride was tense, there were no others on the street and the night enclosed Paris in a thick black cloak. Rue Saint-Martin was empty, there were no residential houses on this side of the street either. If travelling from the brothel at a run or even a swift walking place, the girl and Javert should be here by now. The distance was not far and he had wasted enough time. He disembarked and glanced down the street. Nothing, but the disconcerting sense that he had experienced this before. 

The only thing that drew his attention was a downstairs window in the otherwise darkened prefecture. A room lit by candle when no one should be around to light it. 

Chabouillet acted immediately, swinging down the side road and running up the prefecture steps, two at a time. It was dark inside, but he knew his way, and pushed quickly towards where he’d seen the light. He recognised its place in the offices, it was his own, but he did not dare consider why. 

He slammed the door with his shoulder, letting it swing back with a sharp crack. The two men already within did not jump at all. 

“How good of you to join us Monsieur Chabouillet.” 

Even after all this time, Perier’s voice still made him sick to the core. He hadn’t graced the hallways of the prefecture in a long time, but now here he was back where he’d started, the prime minister of France with a pistol raised and pointing at Javert. 

“The pleasure is all yours,” Chabouillet said raising his own pistol to meet Perier’s head, cursing that he’d already wasted a shot. “Let him go Casimir.” 

“I don’t believe we were ever on first name terms Monsieur Chabouillet, in fact I’m not even sure what yours is. It never seemed like relevant information.” 

“You cannot goad me. It’s over.” 

“It would have been. The last piece in our puzzle was to be wiped from the board tonight, but it’s my lucky day instead and in behind her walks our dear Inspector here.” 

Chabouillet glanced at Javert. He was watching the pistol trained on him with a deep concentration, but there was no fear there, he seemed unmoved. 

“He doesn’t know anything.” 

“He knows too much.” 

“He really doesn’t know anything.” 

Perier tilted his head and the gun with it, eyeing Javert with keen attention as if choosing where to shoot him. “Well Inspector? What do you know?” 

Chabouillet met Javert’s gaze, shook his head an imperceptible amount and prayed that Javert would not be stupid. 

“I know that you are not fit for office and I will do all in my power to bring you to heel.” 

Chabouillet closed his eyes and hoped that the death would be a quick one. Surprisingly, Perier did not take this admission as a chance to shoot, but laughed instead. 

“Your power? What power? Monsieur Chabouillet is one of the most powerful men in the country, but next to me he is so weak. He has achieved nothing.” 

“I will shoot you know, Monsieur,” Chabouillet said, willing the hand on his pistol not to shake. 

“And then? A swift execution for the assassin. They will call you power-hungry then Monsieur Chabouillet. They will call you power-mad!” 

As Perier’s attention was drawn for a brief moment, Javert attempted to make a move. He stepped forward with his hand outstretched as if to bat the gun away, but Perier swirled in an instant and thrust his pistol out. 

“No! I do not think so!” 

“Perier, please!” Chabouillet’s own hand was shaking as he watched Javert being pushed further back into the wall. “There is no way out of this.” 

“But I have already made arrangements. Here is what I’m going to do Monsieur Chabouillet. I am going to shoot Inspector Javert.” 

“Then I will shoot you.” 

Perier laughed and shook his head, the pistol still held tight in his hand. “You must listen Monsieur Chabouillet. I am going to shoot Inspector Javert, and I will, I promise you it will happen. Then you will have your own choice to make. I intend to leave here via my waiting carriage, explain my version of events to all those necessary, pass a few checks and balances. I will ensure Inspector Javert receives a fair share in this tale, shot by a waif with a stolen pistol who feared he was the infamous assailant who preys on women of the night. You, Monsieur Chabouillet, were safe at home and had no knowledge of tonight’s events. Granted, this is not how I expected this to end. The last whore would be quietly dead and no one else need be hurt, but you couldn’t help sticking your nose in places where it didn’t belong. I thought I’d beat that out of you.” 

“The women, the murdered women, what did they see?” 

“It is what they heard. When inviting whores to a party it is prudent not to speak of underhand political affairs, but wine can make a man very stupid indeed.” 

Chabouillet felt the hand that was holding his own pistol loosen. They had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Such a shameful waste. 

“And Henri Gisquet? He was there?” 

“No.” Perier sneered in distaste, his lips curling. “He has different proclivities. His little cabinet that he keeps is no concern of mine.” 

Chabouillet thanked heaven for small mercies, Gisquet's own sin would save him, but Perier was clapping a hand to his forehead. “Oh! Monsieur Chabouillet, I almost forgot the choice, and the choice truly is the best part.” 

“I refuse to play your games.” 

“You will have to if you want your Inspector to live. So, I shoot him, and then, this is the fun bit, you have a choice. Follow me and apprehend me if you must, I’m sure the courts would be delighted at such a ridiculous suit, and I would wish you luck in bringing me the justice I deserve. I fill the pockets of every judge in Paris, and likely the chosen jury too. This option would of course leave your dear Inspector in the unfortunate position of bleeding to death. Alternatively, you may remain with him, hold his wound closed, I will make sure to choose a suitable location for it, and perhaps he will survive. When I am finished with my duties for this evening, I will send a physician. That is my offer.” 

Chabouillet stared, blinking rapidly, then turned his attention to Javert. The corner of Javert’s lip was curling into a mockery of a smile. “It is simple, Monsieur,” Javert said, tone full of satisfaction. “You must follow him and leave me.” 

“I have already told you once this evening that your life is not small, Javert. Do not test me in this regard.” 

“My life would be worth a great deal if I knew it had served to spite such a miscarriage of justice.” 

Perier raised his pistol and held his other hand in the air. “Enough of this. It is not his decision to make Monsieur Chabouillet, it is yours, and you better start thinking...now!” 

The shot rang out, and in an instant Javert had slumped to the floor. It was not immediately evident where Perier had shot, but blood was already seeping into the tiles, soaking into the dark blue of Javert's greatcoat and fanning out across the floor. Chabouillet was stunted in shock, but Perier was a man of action. He turned, flipped the pistol in his hand, and then slammed Chabouillet across the face with the blunt handle. Chabouillet staggered backwards, dazed, one hand clutching at his face, the other reaching for purchase on any available surface. 

He was vaguely aware of Perier leaving through the open door at a run. Time was condensing and moving rapidly all at the same time and Chabouillet reached blindly forward. He’d dropped his own pistol in the confusion and the shape of Javert was blurred, the edges soft and unreal. He clutched at the front of Javert’s uniform, his hand coming away in blood. The man’s face had dropped into unconsciousness, his jaw slack and eyes closed. Chabouillet’s own mind presented him with the image of a younger man, unconscious on the wet cobbles, blood trickling down his temple. His chest clenched and stabbed in pain. 

He scrambled for his gun, fingers curling round the handle, then rose to his feet. His head protested, throbbing in pain, but he pushed on, out the door, into the corridor, the white and black tiles flashing in his mind. 

Perier had reached the steps, his posture smooth and assured. 

“Casimir!” Chabouillet yelled down the corridor, his voice echoing brightly. Perier turned, his eyes widened, and his mouth opened, but Chabouillet did not grant him the respect of final words. He pulled back on the trigger and winced as the shot rang clean in his ears. 

It hit him in the forehead, just off centre, and he crumpled in an undignified heap on the floor. All power snapped like the strings of a puppet. 

Chabouillet breathed heavily for a few moments, staring at the body, then he turned and ran back to the office. Javert was slumped against the wall, his body still, but his eyelids flickered slightly. Chabouillet reached forward, pressing his palm to Javert’s chest and adding as much weight as he dared. 

“Stay with me,” He murmured, placing his other hand to Javert’s cheek. His fingers ran down his temple, smoothed across his whiskers, and gently touched his jaw. “Stay with me now.” 

The light outside was starting to rise and soon someone would find them. He couldn’t move Javert in this state, and he couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t leave Javert to die alone. Not that he would die, Chabouillet wouldn’t let him. Someone would come. He pressed his palm to Javert’s chest, tenderly brushed his cheek, and prayed.

“Your life is not small,” He said softly, trying not to look at the blood that spilled out onto the tiles. “Your life is not small.”

 

* * *

 

 

Perier had been a powerful man with many people in the palm of his hand, but a dead man did not command as much respect. In the interests of avoiding a public scandal it had been decided that Perier’s death should be passed off as a result of the cholera epidemic. Gisquet had shaken his hand the day after the funeral, a funeral where a wife had cried but shed no visible tears, and for the following week Chabouillet received several bouquets of flowers. Some delivered to his house, and others to his office. He took them with him to the hospital on his visits and deposited them there. 

Although Casimir Perier had officially died of cholera, everyone in Paris wanted to thank Chabouillet for somehow causing him to contract it. The Duke de Dalmartia was quickly sworn in as prime minister and no one seemed any the wiser. Chabouillet just wanted the whole business to be over. He wanted Javert back by his side. The doctors told him he was healing well, but that the abundance of flowers he brought with him on every visit was unnerving the Inspector and they asked if he would stop.

 

* * *

 

 

Paris caught on fire that summer. Ideas of revolution ran a muck in the streets and it was only a matter of time before the match drew in the kindling. The fighting had been ablaze for several days now, but that was not why Chabouillet was putting in overtime at the office. He didn’t care for rebellion or students or the republic. 

It was Gisquet who first decided to break the silence and demand that Chabouillet stop hunching over his desk clutching that old greatcoat because Javert was their finest spy and he would be back in no time. 

Chabouillet had hung the greatcoat up with an intense tenderness and had gone home for the night, only to rush back to the prefecture in the early hours of the morning. 

“We need to get him back.” 

“Yes, of course, but we haven’t the men to spare.” Gisquet was pacing and Chabouillet was back to gripping the sleeves of the heavy wool. “Perhaps we have an insurgent on our side to trade back.” 

“He is not up for negotiation.” 

“No, of course not, and I understand.” 

“Oh do you now. You don’t understand a thing.” 

Gisquet had grabbed Chabouillet’s arm then and looked deep into his eyes. “I really do.” 

Messages were being sent back and forth from the front lines, but communication was slow. Chabouillet itched to know more, to go down to the fighting himself, but Gisquet sensibly stopped him. He was not a young man and he had never been a soldier. He’d only go and get them both killed. Talks of a rescue mission were quickly quashed, they didn’t have anyone to spare and the barricades were holding fast. 

It was late on June 6th and the reports came quicker, barricades were falling all over Paris, and only one remained. Of course Chabouillet noticed with a sick fear, it was the one where Javert was being held. He decided to pace, for pacing always helped. He marched over the black and white tiles, the place where Perier’s body had collapsed without ceremony and the blood had long since washed away. Gisquet was passing with the latest stack of reports to sort through and Chabouillet stopped him. 

“Any news?” 

Gisquet’s face told him everything in the way it dropped, but was then quickly replaced with pity. Chabouillet was a strong man in many regards and he would hold himself firm. He listened as Gisquet told a report of a national guard who had betrayed their side and taken Javert from the insurgents. There were multiple reports of the shot that followed. 

“We’ll recover the body, I promise.” Gisquet’s remarks were not comforting, they only served to drive home Chabouillet’s reality. Javert was gone. His palms were numbing and his throat was constricting him so that he could not breathe, but he would welcome that now. Gisquet did not stop him when he requested to retire for the rest of the evening. He did not even inquire whether or not he would be alone, but let him go. Chabouillet slipped out the back door into the night, looking up at the black sky with a heavy heart. Had he only chosen to leave via the main entrance the heavens might not have looked so cold.

 

* * *

 

 

“You did what?” 

Gisquet had placed a desk between himself and Chabouillet, a wise move considering the man looked like he was about to catapult himself at the prefect. 

“Ándre, I tried to keep him here until you could be fetched.” 

“You did not try very hard.” 

“We are short enough on men as it is and he accepted the mission willingly.” 

Chabouillet let out a sound of frustration and tried to skirt the desk to lay a hand on Gisquet. Gisquet quickly slid the other way. 

“The man is not in his right mind,” Chabouillet said, running a hand through his hair and down his neck. “He has spent days as a captive, he is likely in distress, traumatised even, and you think it wise to send him into the sewer!” 

“Not _into_ the sewer. He is guarding the entrance to ensure there are no insurgent escapes.” 

“I do not care about specifics!”

Just then the door opened and one of Gisquet's many secretaries appeared, hovering in the light, a report clutched in his hand. Chabouillet reached for the nearest paperweight and threw it full force at the door, catching the wall just above Jules-Ernest Nay, who shrieked and immediately backed out, hurriedly closing the door. 

Gisquet nodded helpless, his hand still poised and ready on the desk so that he could push off with some leverage should Chabouillet attempt to strangle him. Javert had arrived shortly after Chabouillet had left, not fully alert, but alert enough that Gisquet considered it appropriate to send him back out into the field. Javert had been restless, distracted, and after reporting back at his initial post he was desirous to return. 

“Why could he possibly want to go back out into this holy hell?” 

“I do not know the man well, Ándre. You seem to know his mind best of all of us.” 

“If you know that to be the case then why did you see fit to decide what’s best?” 

“Because it is my job.” 

Chabouillet slammed his fist on the desk and gave Gisquet a burning look before turning on his heel and exiting the room. He would go to the water’s edge himself and find Javert and take him home, back to his own home if need be. 

He walked down the Quai de Gevres with his head up. Men and horses were swiftly passing, police were guarding the entrances to and from the river and carriages containing wounded soldiers were making their way towards the hospital. Chabouillet walked on the other side, but was almost toppled as a fast-moving fiacre careered past in the opposite direction. Where such a carriage could be travelling at this time of night was beyond him. 

Gisquet had told him the entrance to the sewers where Javert was to be standing guard, but there was no one there. The grate was pulled back and a considerable amount of water and sewage was spilling about it. Chabouillet considered entering the sewers himself and calling for Javert, but such an act was shrouded in futility. He walked the edge of the parapet, crossed the bridge, and paced down the aisles of the island. Javert’s figure was recognisable, even at night and by the light of streetlamps he would find him. He had to find him, there was no other option. 

He had descended the steps to walk along the Seine, close by the Quai de la Corse, and from here he had an acceptable view of those walking along the riverside. It was cold and he had left the prefecture without a suitable overcoat and was currently clad in only his decorative one. 

He shivered, thrusting his hands into his pockets and burying his face deep in the silk scarf, a fateful move to make at that precise moment. For when he looked up again he only caught the last split-second. The Pont au Change was shrouded in darkness, a formidable structure when not blessed by the light of the sun. Still, unmistakably the figure could be made out, standing on the parapet, tall and imposing, and unmistakably Javert. Chabouillet was about to call out when the figure toppled and fell from the great height and landed with a splash in the waters below. He considered it to be a mirage for all of a brief moment before running to the water’s edge himself. 

The surface was clear, the rapids heavy, and there was no sign that a body had fallen in. He grasped the edge of a rope that was tied to an iron ring jutted into the rocks and passed it across his own body. He was not a  young man, he had never been particularly strong, but he would fight this to the last breath. 

The water was colder than he’d expected, freezing, and his muscles tensed up in shock. He forced through it, rising to the surface for a breath before diving beneath. He attempted to open his eyes, but the stung and the water was clouded with dirt and silt. Instead he reached with his hands, attempting to find the river bed. He was lost except for the rope to cling to, nothing above or beneath him, nor anything to either side. He rose for several breaths, his lungs burned as they filled with more water on every trip to the surface and his muscles threatened to give out. Yet still he dove beneath the swirling waters. The rope pulled sharp about his waist and he thrashed out, his heart stopping as he suddenly felt something beneath his fingertips. In a moment it was gone and when he reached out again he felt nothing. Then the tide and rushing waves pushed back towards him and he felt it again, this time he clenched his fist tight, gripping to the wool in his hands. He pulled hard, drawing the body towards him, wrapping his arms around it, and then tugging hard on the rope. The fight to the water’s edge was almost harder than finding Javert beneath the surface, but he found strength from his will. 

With a final heave he shoved Javert over the edge and pushed him back along the cobbled bank. He spluttered as he pulled himself over, remaining on his hands and knees as he gained his breath back. He’d pulled every muscle in his body and had ripped all air from his lungs. 

He crawled towards Javert and draped himself across the soaked chest of his greatcoat, slamming a fist futilely into the material. “You stupid stupid man,” He exclaimed, gripping to Javert’s arms and shoulders. “You stupid boy.” 

He reached up for Javert’s neck, felt for a pulse, but it was still and cold. His palm curled across his cheek and he leaned in closer, pressing their wet foreheads together. His other hand reached for Javert’s wrist where he searched desperately for a heartbeat, but the waters were rushing too loudly in his mind. He gave up, letting his fingers slip into Javert’s and holding his hand tight. 

“I’ve kept you safe all this time,” Chabouillet said, lips inches from Javert’s own. “And you had to go and be your own downfall.” 

He cursed Javert, he cursed the heavens, he cursed Gisquet, he cursed himself, and he cursed Dubois from all those years ago back in the police academy. If he’d taken Dubois instead, none of this would have ever happened, he would not be weeping over the body of Dubois, for he would not have fallen in love with Dubois. 

“You idiot,” Chabouillet cursed again, as if breathing so close to Javert’s mouth might breathe some life back into him. He slammed his fist over Javert’s chest in a gesture of frustration and gripped tight to the limp hand. The coughing and spluttering he could have mistaken for his own, but the light squeeze over his hand he could not. He jerked back, the sight of open eyes on a man he’d thought dead more than a little alarming. Javert was wheezing, coughing excess water from his lungs, the slam to his chest Chabouillet’s accidental kiss of life.

Chabouillet observed Javert for a moment then he leaned forward and gripped him tight, swinging his arms round his neck, not caring for the pain in his muscles. He pulled him close, pressing his lips to Javert’s forehead and kissing him. Javert stilled in his grip then relaxed, allowing himself to be held and touched. Then Chabouillet felt Javert’s own hand press to his back, not pulling or holding, merely resting. They were both so cold, but Chabouillet thanked providence, for they were both so alive.


End file.
